Fight

A poem on the nature of grit and determination, and their effectiveness.

We forget, fixated on all those films

portraying true stories of underdogs

who never knew how to quit and won out

in the end, that grit and pluck can only

take us so far, before a solid right

connects with our left temple, sending us

reeling, one eye staring off into space,

the other desperate for any reference

point. I have been told so many times, by

so many voices, that, if I will fight,

my dreams can be reached. Imagine my pain

upon discovering the lie within

this pleasantry. No, the soul in earnest

effort cannot overcome anything,

any obstacle that obstructs its path,

not even most. The meanest apathy

can raise up walls of dull iron and stone,

providing no toe hold or chink for love

to find a way, ingenuity means

little, earnestness merely results in

bigger bruises, passion just leaves you cold

in wailing silence following the death

of hope.

I saw Muhammad Ali on a plane

once, the greatest, the champ, the undisputed

king of the ring, unable to stand up

without aid – the one who stung like a bee,

floated like a butterfly, just sat there

trembling like a leaf. I cannot use nice

words for what I saw, for what I saw

was not nice. I saw how quickly glory

fades, leaving behind the husks we all are

inside, the ways our bodies honor our

youths. So go, go out with your dreams and stars,

rocket your way to the top, never look

back at what lies gaping before us all.