Afraid to realize that I can't do it after all
And this time, failing is not an option
But my knees are shaking
I'm collapsing.

But I'm holding on
Step by step I lift my soul
My spirit and my eye
And there, done!

the closed span of this month
spent furrowing through sleepless,
shuffling pages form walls, cycles of
break n' fix. waste of words. all
chance, all change. spent out.

there is, again, grand weight,
and, yeah, i've felt heavier. no
amount of lifting changes this,
though. drowning conversation.
leaving qualm. endowing closure,
coarsening topologies, maximal
saturation. finally, my rusted
thought process found ideal space.
or the delusion, at least.

meanwhile, the rain falls on, and
serves as reminder that this world is
built to dissolve & reassemble,
always permuting componency. &
all i want
is to be a reason
or some warmth, at least.

Like all others, I hated high school.
It was a scrawny waif that I remember seated at the front of the class.
I raised my hand at every question to endless ridicule,
and people whispered I was weak for trying to be "such a smart-***".

Now people think I lack brains because I own a barbell and bench.
What they don't know is that it's all an extension of my first love: Science.

Every morning, I don my hooded polyester lab coat.
I write theorems in drops of sweat on a rubber padded mat.
I experiment with the practicality of the theorems I wrote;
I know my hypothesis is correct when veins bulge and muscles catch.

Breathing shallow, in ragged determined gasps of air,
I put my theory to the test. Veins bulge, muscles strain.
There is no joy like the joy I know when I find my theory correct. I call it
The Warrior Poet Principle: One can in fact have brawn as well as brain.

I've accomplished the task I set myself in high school's lonely halls,
I vowed that I'd never be that weak waif again.
Hiding bruises from pimple faced tyrants who had me by my *****,
I persevered, and I grew my thews and thesis in twain.

**Now by neither tyrant nor textbook will I ever be chained.