Poem: Out of Breath

March 21, 2014

how do we start
when the finish line doesn’t exist,
when our mind tells us to move
but our legs are reluctant to crawl,
much less sprint toward expression.

how do we run through silence
if meditation is our preferred marathon?

should we worry when
lines of paper are not lines of a racetrack,
even though every muscle strives for perfection.

where does the hesitation come from?
does it sneak up on us with age,
now that our bones are afraid to break?

time is as competitive as this struggle.
time runs beside you
and moves faster than the wind.
time doesn’t care if you can’t write a poem.
it runs laps around your indecision.

time is the lightning fast
version of yourself
from years past
whose footprints were
dipped in ink,
splashing poetry on blank canvasses.

why do we compete with the past
when the path ahead
is brighter?

how do we move slower
but maintain a steady pace?

and why do we put so much
value in winning the race?