The three of them stand facing off
Hand, pen, paper; the perfect team
The only limit is what can’t be dreamed.
Locked in a room, his desk is the world
The three musketeers must do it alone
There’s always a start, whether a poem or tome.
Once Inspiration is found, the grind begins
The hand connected to the brain, it’s ideas, power
The grind goes on for hours and hours
After a day of pen dancing on paper
Results start to emerge, the hand guarding all progress
After a day, though, creativity may regress.
The three men in arms encounter a wall
Hand, pen, paper; without guidance they’ll fail
After hours and days of thinking, he’ll find his holy grail
New hope revealed the team continues
They climb over the wall
Proud, they stand tall.
After completion, the results hung up on a wall
For the world to see, for the world to critique
Venomous snakes make your work look bleak
The black and white melts to grey
With twenty-six symbols he just wanted to convey
A message that he could not simply say.
Click. Something has snapped inside his head
Mechanically, he raises his hand.
Pouncing at the opportunity to grasp further knowledge
“Sir, he inquires, what actually is the meaning of Pi”?
His peers, somewhat bemused, crane their necks toward the outlier
He is tall
He is proud
He is red with a hint of green
What is he, you might ask?
He is the tall poppy
Ready to be cut down.
Crack. The arc of willow and the bang of the ball.
Another one fires down, and fires back just as fast.
He is good; perhaps too good.
Day after day; month by month; practice after practice;
He fires it back with increasing elegance
His mates walk by, laughter rings around.
He cowers away; ashamed of his desire to be better.
He is tall.
He is proud.
He is red with a hint of green.
His mates are about to speak.
Alone in a corner sits a being of wood
It makes a sound that nothing else could
From a deep bass to a high pitched tune
It knows that someone will be playing it soon
It stands so still but tall and proud
And makes a noise that is so loud.
Its partner is of a very different make
Of flesh and bone that’s easy to break
He is the one that makes the song
Although sometimes it is very long
What he writes can bring forth tears
And take away almost everyone’s fears.
This unlikely duo, are the best of friends
The type of bond that never ends
When they are together no one is safe
From the sound of the tune that they always make
In the hall where the music is made
The two are happy even when the sound fades.
But it is the man who gets the fame
And leaves his friend for others gain
He does not know what he’s done
But to the public there can be only one
To them the man is by himself
And his partner sits while he reaps the wealth.
He sits alone in his study, head in hands
His temples pulsate, sending streaks of grey lightening through his hair
He sinks deeper into his office chair
Images of America, troubled, flash through his mind
He lets out a deep sigh and takes a drink.
Stock market. Gay marriage. Poverty. It’s all on his shoulders.
Delivering a speech, his mind starts to wander
How would he return to civilian life?
The harsh spotlight rests on his features
Bleaching and cracking his once youthful skin
He breathes deep, and continues with his speech.
The federal deficit. His job to justify.
Playing with his son, he cannot focus
Holding a nation on his shoulders
Sure makes it hard to throw a ball.
His son watches as a frown twists his face
As though his backyard were a graveyard instead.
American’s weight forcing him into it early.
In the Whitehouse, he studies a painting.
President Lincoln, gaunt face, grey hair, young age
It’s a mirror image of his own face.
The painting distorts, and instead he sees himself
His mind and body battered by stress.
He sighs, and returns to running the world.