The Race
Pain is not a garment changed with whims of a fashion style
Its heavy, razor edges are both permanent and vile
A torture made of illness, loss, of injury, regret
That churns and burns and rips the flesh til bloody, sticky, wet.
The greatest fighters find the strength to see beyond distress
With twisted frames they stagger on, weak battle cries of "yes"
When all their body wants to say is "Quit! Give Up! Give in!"
But heroes answer back and use the strength that lies within.
Shadows cannot appear unless there is a source of light.
Victories only come when we have made it through the fight.
Sometimes the winner doesn't wear a laurel on his head,
The greatest warriors show strength by climbing out of bed.
To win the race with perfect legs is naught of exception
But just to vie at a crawl deserves a knight's reception.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
