The elusive rush,
That which you lust,
How does one capture that evasive rush?
Call it vitality or motivation if you will,
Every man has felt it,
No matter how shrill.
Must it come from within?
Naturally as they say,
Nay, there must exist another way.
For after soul-searching and contemplation,
Day after day,
You will exhaust prayer and libation,
The recursive foray.
Ere long, you will seek a rush from without,
After swimming upstream like a wretched trout.
Just a taste and that is it,
You are now a fledgling
Beholden to the ***.
Now comes the inevitable epiphany,
They call it “Recovery”,
A period of healing and false discovery.
It is now that your soul is most vulnerable,
Liable to become a group-thinker
Whose truth comes in platitudes,
Who accepts these gifts with gratitude.
Beware of the brainwashing cynics,
And schools in the guise of clinics,
Of the endless masquerade
Where you will learn to be an imposter.
To be careful when fighting the monsters…
What fills the vacuum?
Here one has a choice:
Toil, hedonism, or watching The Voice.
The third option is where you will be steered,
Or rather dragged, held by the ear.
This vicarious rush, is it enough?
Is this really what you lust?
A feeling so fleeting, gone in a gust,
Has your brain turned to rust?
You must escape this phony rush,
For the feeling comes not in a bottle,
It cannot be crushed.
Latent, dormant, coated in dust,
Nonetheless vital beneath the cusp.
Fear not the rust, for it exists on the crust,
Unable to reach the rush that you lust.
This is the first real poem I ever wrote, for an English assignment in high school. Although I don't write much poetry, I think I've come a long way.