They fingerpick on the guitar
while I toe pick on the ice;
my equipment doesn't fit as well
as each note in each composition they write.
After building brick walls in front of the net
their slapbass slapshots destroy my defenses
until their goals plague my crease.
While trying to set focus on my own game
loud cheering emits from various venues
for Mozart writing his first symphony at 6
Orson Welles directing Citizen Kane at 25
Johnny Depp originating that last line at 31
and Patrick Mahomes, whom I'm older than.
Competition is healthy, functional
until the unstable heat of boiling envy
releases the steam of resentment
building pressure in the machinery
until the screws pop out like marbles
knocking each other out of bounds.
Daftly defining ego as the self
and success as superiority
and achievement as relative,
I race against relatives;
each pace they gain
is a slap in the face in the rain
stinging while slipping while
blaming the elements
precipitating my demise.
Gripping graphite too tightly
vulcanized rubber goes wide
shattering through plexiglass
and into the rib cage
of an innocent bystander
dropping his concessions
to climb the stairs to the sky box
while I wait for repairs to be made.