Poem: Showtime

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Showtime

Showtime.
I get up. Put my feet on the floor.
Force myself
to get up,
to get moving.

Likely, for you, it’s automatic,
this getting up.
Not so for me.
There is little automatic in my life
and waking up is no different.
A conscious thing,
a battle,
the edge of the war zone.

But the minute my feet hit the floor,
and my old ass leaves the bed,
I have won my first victory.

Showtime.
I get dressed.
Fast, lest the minions in my mind
lure me back to a prone position,
surrender to the demons and their chants
reminding you of the lie.
That you have no value.
No one will miss you.
Nothing matters.

They lie.
It took me a coon’s age to realize that.
but here I am, feet on the ground,
clothes on.
They lie, and every morning I move, get up,
dress, the words “It’s Showtime!” shouted,
sometimes for real and not just in my head,
the words a battle cry and a history lesson.
The voices know, once the cry resounds,
that they have already lost.

There may be skirmishes after that moment,
but they are half-hearted feints.
They know who the day belongs to:
Me and the people I love.
I may feel it,
I may not.
It does not matter. The day’s battle is won,

There is work to do
and I am going to do it.
It does not matter how I feel.
It is, after all, showtime.

About this poem.

As they say, some days are harder than others. But we survive them all. It helps to have a why.

I am blessed with lots of whys.

Tom

PS – The picture was taken at a farm just over the NY border from where I live.

 

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