I keep climbing this ladder, rung after rung
hands blistered, mind humming some half-finished song.
Each step feels like progress, or maybe deceit
Because I swear I’ve seen this rung beneath my feet.

Sometimes I slip, not far, but enough to swear
and curse the slick bastards who left oil there.
Life greases the grips when I start to believe
just to see if I’ll fall, or laugh, and reprieve.

It’s funny, in a tragic sort of way
how gravity feels personal some days.
Like it’s not the fall, but the knowing I’ll land
that tests whether hope still lives in my hands.

There were days I just dangled, too tired to fight
legs shaking, heart burning, no end in sight.
But faint through the dark, I heard voices call
soft, but steady, they believed I’d not fall.

Each “You’ve got this” was louder than despair
their faith, a handrail I hadn’t known was there.
They didn’t climb for me, they just held the light
and somehow that made the fall feel… right.

Now higher I go, still missing a rung or two
but I know which ones to skip, lessons overdue.
My grip’s not perfect, my rhythm still flawed
but damn if I’m not closer to the stars I saw.

And if I slip again, well, that’s fine, I suppose
I’ll land on my pride, it breaks easy, God knows.
The view’s not divine, but it’s honest and mine
each bruise a reminder: I’m still on the climb.