Writing and running – part two (I hate self-discipline)
Resorting to poetry, I can barely breath,
having captured an hour, to move less gently.
For this one I warmed down, but feel shaky legged,
insecure heartbeat, ice-cream pain, intense.
A talk about dogs, some nearly hit cars,
colder, but brighter, and still not too hard.
Building it slowly, but too fast for me,
phone slapping comfort, keeping a beat.
A rhythm, de-synced to ventricles furred,
ripping the filth that from torpor it learnt.
Inaction made steady, can easily seduce,
that part of me wanting, to without effort produce,
all that I hope for, with no courage put in.
A teacher once told me, I lacked self-discipline,
I still hate him.