Like It Or Not, This Is The Best
How far gone is my soul and mind,
That coming back seems impossible?
My hands ache to be guided by your prompt,
Yet hours of blankness dull my bluntness.
But I can still etch out classics,
If brilliant minds will rub with mine.
My pen waits close, surreptitiously listening,
To gather in ink the wisdom you proffer,
For my momentary moments of madness.
The top ten will never be my goal,
But that one top spot that crowns the race.
A trophy beside my poem will render it more comely—
Not just this week, but at the marathon’s end,
For this is no sprint that halts at a hundred.
Yet the nearest mile I first must conquer,
Before the next, and all the miles ahead.
Though my fingers ache as though racing in fear,
No shadow of doubt will bow me to defeat.
Oh mine! Oh mine! I see it now—
A wonder folded deep in my words.
I’ve penned a masterpiece for the summit,
No judge can dismiss its rightful claim.
If none are near to ring my bell,
I’ll strike it loud with resounding voice.
I am no gentleman in this contest,
But a rival running the race to win.
Half the course gone—my pace surges higher.
Like it or not, this is the best.
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