Resistance and Its Minions

If Aprils bumbling cheerfulness won't keep me going, it must be the sun, or the bees or the trees and their sloping branches, willowy flowers. No, it's a plaintive push, from the bed to the desk. Write, write, write. Why do you write? If it's so taxing, why do you try? My mother, with all her exacting logic and precision wouldnt understand. If resistance plagues my art then the verses will wither and die If resistance makes a home in my willing bones Then I can never write without a thousand glittering excuses Choking up my hands. And then a few months later, Days glued together with sticky static and youtube marathons. Someone around you, someone will overcome their resistance And get an article published or win a moot. And out of your mouth will drip a backhanded compliment Like a slap to their face. Between the salt and the sting and the pregnant silence You will wonder who you have become. Like a rotting plum, resistance will ferment and stink up your very being. Therefore I must write and remind myself that the sky is blue. And pray that the following day will be an iteration of the last, Happy and unassuming. Meanwhile the months do not falter, April skips along, chrome yellow and cheery A bumbling fool with nothing to offer but heedless to resistance.