Friday, July 9, 2010

Fuck Writer's Block!

I have been dealing with it for a decade.  And I am sick and tired of it.  I have a secret to share people.  I am terrified of writing.  A few people who know me will be shocked by that revelation - a few who truly know me will not.  I have been struggling to post something, anything, for days now.  But I can't, because I am so terrified of putting my shit out there, that I second-guess everything.  In my head, I yell at myself for being a terrible writer, I scold myself for being less of a man, and lament the fact that even jailbird Lindsay Lohan can at least update her Twitter 17 times a day.  And she does it without panties, while I am sitting here restricted by boxer briefs.  It's time to break out!

So I am taking the advice of an pretty cool chick, one who is new to my circle of friends but has made an impact on my life nonetheless.  She basically told me to just post something.  So I am going to take that one step farther - just to challenge myself - and post something truly uncomfortable.  I am going to post a poem that I wrote in college.  And I fucking hate poetry.  And I by no means am proud of the shit that I had to write for my poetry classes.  But here is one of them - something that means absolutely nothing to anyone else on earth but me - and maybe my Pops, for whom I wrote it for.  This poem was about becoming just one tiny bit more like him - something that I always strive for, and will continue to throughout my life.

Old Blue

Standing in the line at Shea
holding my father's hand
five sizes bigger than mine
my eyes like a pair of cue balls
the greasy cat behind the counter
smells like old cigars
but he places it in my hand

My breath catches, it is so blue
like the sky over my head
my Pops winks at me
as if I have just been let in on
a lifelong secret
My First Mets Cap

At first, it simply showed allegiance
my testament, to the boys of summer
when passers-by saw Old Blue
a nod came my way
or a thumb, raised in the air
with him, I was an adult
and I felt as if I belonged in that town
my home a Big Apple

Soon, Blue showed his age
covered in sweat stains
and traumatized by a loose seam
like an open wound, intimidating
More loyal than any friend
I went, he followed
and when the rain poured, he gave shelter
lookin' out for his boy

I aged, and Blue with me
his face cracked, and lined
he began to shrink, as old men often do
yet he still screamed out my fashion statement
and in part, helped to shape
the man, the fan, that I am today

But I will always remember
the way I felt with him low on my brow
walking down the ramp at Shea 
with my old man

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