Torn like a paper with scribblings,
I churn on my metabolism to live.
Like soccer, I’m a man
Juggling a creative game on paper, aiming
For Maradona or Messi, but still falling short.
And when they actualize,
A poem is a soccer ball, life jacket, nebulizer,
Parachute, almost anything that will
Save me from this horrendous boredom.
And I look from the other side of 40
At a slope and two feet given to me, to make
That a mortal journey,
One half climb, and the other, descent.
And life is just my conscious attempt
To be as natural as my genes code me.
To be a stooge of mortality
Searching for any silver lining.
To be my own god of little things
Of those little feats that become their own stars
On memory’s night sky.