Oh, how the bow and arrow have strayed from these rusty, wrinkled fingertips.
Oh, how the targeting range has been pushed even further away from these damaged, blurred eyes.
Once, this was his miracle.
Once, he actually believed that with a single shot, all his problems could simply fade away.
Because once, he was hopeless.
He was an overweight, mediocre, nothing-but-a-loser kid with big dreams too high up for his stubby legs to even reach.
He was the victim of society, forced into a box named "stereotypes" the size of a damn elephant, simply because
"Hey, aren't all obese people that fat?"
Once, he believed that love existed.
As he touched the comforting, wooden surface of his beloved bow, embraced it to his chest,
And as he plucked an arrow and twirled it in his fingertips, he thought
He could feel something.
But inanimate objects don't have hearts.
And as he climbed to his feet and got into position,
No, not facing the front because "Oh my God, look at his man boobs!"
Nope, not the back because "Oh my God, look at his butt!"
But the side, where there are no faults, where the cup is neither half empty nor half full but
Simply half.
And he'd pull back the string.
Arms straight, eyes forward, legs distant, back straight, smile wide because you don't wanna look bad on camera
And he glared at the centre as if it were the very reason he was judged for being a couch potato who knew nothing but donuts and cakes and chips and steaks and
He doesn't even have diabetes.
One breath and swiftly,
Like a bald eagle ravenous for its prey,
The arrow flew.
And it always hit the centre, always found a way to pierce itself deep within society's misjudgment on him.
And then, time flew,
And here he was:
Four years after leaving it behind.
Four years after being reintroduced to the bow as if he had found
His estranged lover who he presumed to be dead,
His brain was screaming out for mercy as his fingers wrapped themselves tensely around the string,
As behind him, his new friends - yes, that's right - friends stood with warm smiles and cheers of support,
He didn't dare risk a misfired shot.
He didn't dare risk a measly pathetic score and yet
He had to.
Arms straight, eyes forward, legs distant, back straight, smile wide because you don't wanna look bad on camera
His fingers were lit with the flames of desperation and determination as
He passionately shot away.
And as always, as always always always
It hit the centre.
He didn't need to worry anyway.
A/N: Hi everyone. I know I haven't updated my books for a really long time and you can blame my hectic life in university for that, haha. I've missed writing poetry, so I attended this Slam Poetry Workshop to try and discover a different aspect to it.
And this, my friends, is an attempt at a slam poem. I plan to actually perform this for a slam poetry competition thing, so any and all advice would be highly appreciated.
Thank you!
YOU ARE READING
It (#Wattys2016)
Poetry| 1st Place for Summer Sun Awards (Beginner's Firsts) | | 2nd Place for the Pinpoint Awards | | Finalist for the 2016 Awards | It matters not what people think regarding things you believe strongly in. Perhaps, it may even help to even spread...
