I realize, for this, that I have you to
thank.
How often you told me to stop, don't
waste time
Putting ink to my thoughts, to my prose
and to rhyme;
Ink not just on paper, but through skin
as well,
To commemorate strength fire-tempered
in hell.
Skin that covers a body that honed
strength through sport,
Spurred on by discouragement. Still
think I'm too short?
I my body relax, and muse fuel up, with beer.
You're there, of course, aiming to fill me with fear
That the first time I put twelve-ounce pump to my mouth
Addiction will drive me unerringly south.
I my body relax, and muse fuel up, with beer.
You're there, of course, aiming to fill me with fear
That the first time I put twelve-ounce pump to my mouth
Addiction will drive me unerringly south.
I know that you'd have me give up on
the ride,
No longer to lean as through corners I
glide.
Once some new distraction paves new paths to joy,
Your nasally naysaying you swift
employ,
But I write still; I ride still; still
love sports and tattoos.
My mind buried in passions, it's kept
off of you.
This poem took a meandering path to existence. I started it as a "Why I Write" poem back in April, but it expanded in scope. I wrote down a few lines and thought of most of a poem's-worth. I put the finishing touches on it recently with a few new lines. I'm not sure if the bulk of the poem is remembered lines or re-created lines.
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