Rookie writer’s race
An ode to a Medium that reaches out to the spirits of poetry
One clap, two clap, three clap, forty!
From my cradle, I gleefully stared.
By grown ups, much taller than me,
my gibberish too was intently cared!
Tall figures shooting through the roof,
I gawked with awe and some envy too.
Sitting in my pram, snug, shock proof,
I wondered: some day, I’ll be like you!
Right foot forward, they prompted,
must follow rules, must stick to form.
Out there was a free world, it tempted.
Keep your push cart, I kicked a storm.
Stepping out of my comfort zone,
submitted myself to the wild world.
Fell on the nose, broke many a bone.
It’s all part of growing up: I was told.
Falling I can handle, but patience kills.
Tracking eyeballs, yearning for claps.
Illusive green bubble gives such thrills.
Once easily got, now took a million taps.
With swollen fingers and a sullen heart,
when I was about to concede my loss,
the medium blinked, having played her part:
holy ghosts sent a thunderous applause!
A heart beat, a tear drop and a smug face.
What a race they ran, oh, what a race!
