Pumping Poetry

Here's something to read till I'm finished with LTAB season.

I was in a very different position when I wrote this piece...I tried my hardest to rhyme EVERYTHING. Sometimes it was successful and other times it wasn't. But I think it correctly captures the agony and struggle that comes when writing, as well as the feeling of "it was worth it" when a piece is finally finished.

So...here we are again
My feet, back on the track
Face pristine like a picture on a kodak
Socks tucked in and bottle in the backpack

I admire myself for one last time
Knowing I will have to leave my past life behind
And be content with a set of new looks
My eyes stare back in lines like a Rook

The conveyer belt twists and turns
I am unaware that I have much to learn
Am I ready to make the leap?
Upon that mill of tread
Made of copy paper and college rules

My feet slam the ground, making no sound
I shut off everything in the background
As I surround myself with Bach’s Concerto in F minor
Hoping that the soliloquy of piano and strings will provide a symphony large enough for me to forget…
The task that lies before me

I think about how I’ll color this blank page
My large disposition gives me ambition to fight
Years of acquiring so many ideas I am finally ready to create rather than to simply watch
I want to burn every last calorie before an overdose busts my arteries
And have thoughts, ideas, and dreams flow in poetic harmony

But how come I can’t just quit?
Why must I burn off several pounds of ideas, all of which I have recently acquired?
Taken from roaming throughout the earth, treading back and forth on its desires
Who cares if I, greedily stuff ideas in my mouth as I am inspired by the words of others?
It is the easy way isn’t it?
To thieve rather than to conceive... a new creation
But listening is good and I don’t want to be misunderstood but we have to do more than copy some phrases, make a clone, and call it our own
We must turn thought into action and remove every distraction as we become the Emerson’s and take our own path
Even if it may be terrifying

Yes, it’s time for me to start
And write this poem
And let the sweat roll off my face
While the words splatter on to the page

I’m pumped up and ready for action
Calmy deflecting any thought of giving up and slowing down
But there is...one more problem
In place of a fallacy, comes one more lie
Like a monster that can’t be controlled,  I’m sold on this idea that writing is easy
That I can run the tri-writeathlon by reading a few books
That I can catch the perfect idea in the pond with only a hook, and not worm
I prepared very poorly for this
This is no cruise control and flat Illinois driving
This is a rocky and thunderous storm and Devil’s Lake hiking
Where each thought competes and fights for top seat
The sum of them are expendable and they all live, die, and repeat
You can’t get too attached to one
You have to let it go, and be done

With pen in hand in hand I’m a flurry of black, blue, and red
Switching the tune of my song I try another draft
Switching my feet and running more, even if my legs are beat
As body meets metal and ink meets page
Circuits course with rage and on this stage

But I must battle through the fatigue
And the obstacles that come racing toward me
Flyin up like Rodan and swooping down like Mothra I breathe fire like Godzilla and let out my roar of terror
This beast called Writing is fighting like a fire-breathing Chimera
Like a Hydra its heads multiply and grow and show no signs of stopping
The words refuse to compose themselves into something agreeable
The drafts won’t change into anything readable
And to turn a career out of this seems unforeseeable
I feel like Jacob wrestling with God
Trying to make my voice heard as I’m thrown into the sod
But I can’t give up give up and cringe at failure’s touch
Though I am trusted with little, I will strive to do much

So as I lap, I see the greats and those who have come before me
Bradbury, Orwell, Vonnegut, and Dickens
They mean to inspire but in truth they are the villains
As I am reminded about how far I am behind them
My soul burns to be acknowledged in a similar way and to have my writing be up there
To flex my muscles and be on the New York Times Bestseller

But to achieve those lofty dreams does not mean to use recurring themes
It means to stay grounded in reality and put in the work, rather than find the easy way out
But look! It’s one week past and I’m finally finished with my rough draft
For a duty that is easier said than done,
My knees ache with pain before the first act is won
As I pour more water into the ocean of liquid on my face, and I begin to lift some weights to continue with phase two
I’m pumpin through lead, ink, and copy paper
As my creative edge dissipates into vapor
And I pray to the one who spun the moon and stars
And I cry: why can’t this be good enough? Why must writing be so hard?

But I persist
Shaking my fist
Despite the risks
Until I push and pull and edit and write
I don’t stop until it all looks right
Smashin through more drafts, breaking down the Idon'tcares, pinching myself with a rubber band, and perfecting the crafts
I lift as the sweat of my ideas pours down like rain and will not stop until I stand unashamed at what I have here

But pain shoots from both legs and radiates like poison and the only option is to continue to write
But maybe...I hear my mind say
Maybe if I stopped this problem would drop
Maybe if I closed up shop...

Maybe...this writing thing isn’t for me anymore
But then to my surprise I find that one line and am comforted by the one above
Who tells me that though this life is hard, the afterlife is better
And it’s better to be a tryhard than a quitter

He told me that it gets better and rather than using my talent for personal gain, and keeping the first fruits for myself like Cain,
I should use it for his kingdom and glorify his work
And on that day he told me the words I told my poem on the day of its birth
Nothing will separate you from me
Never forget your worth