The elevator won't take me to perfect.
It's a long way to go.
Nobody expects me to get there.

Nobody, except everybody.

I've got an appointment with perfection –
Gotta be there by 33.

I've been told I could get lost –
Pass the A+ on your right,
But go no more than 102 pounds.

Nobody agrees which floor perfection is on.
Some settle for floor 14 – love.
Others at floor 22 – money.
I've got the world telling me how I can get there.

When I started, my dreams were big.
I could make it.
But I've been sweating, wheezing, and I wish there was an escalator.
I wish there weren't so many varied directions and long, twisting halls.
I wish I could just follow the yellow brick road.

When I'm exhausted, and rest at a B+,
Everyone tells me I'm in the wrong place.
I'm not reaching my potential perfection.
That's a few floors up
In space.

I'm done.
I can climb a flight of stairs all my life,
But Mars is a height not in this building.
I've reached the top floor:
Decent.
And there's only one direction left to go.

Would you like to push me down?