Distinguishing Marks

We raise the bar, then plummet twice as far
to scrape away a chunk of hapless clay;
each faded scar is part of who we are.

It seems bizarre to only shoot for par
when every day presents another way
to raise the bar, then plummet twice as far

and soundly jar our bones, condemned to mar
the shell we pray will make it through the fray.
Each faded scar is part of who we are,

each jagged star like strings on a guitar
that helps convey the verve with which we play.
We raise the bar, then plummet twice as far

but still we spar with those that knock our tar
to yesterday, despite the bloody spray;
each faded scar is part of who we are.

As Zippos char the tip of a cigar
our feats will gray and we’ll devise a way
to raise the bar, then plummet twice as far—
each faded scar is part of who we are.