I like this pain.
It may be because it’s how I unfold on stage.
The body I use as fame
With it’s million indignant strains.
It proves productive with an aim
Too shameless to tame.
Can I last another day?
Without my muscles showcasing
Peeling it’s tightness from the skin without dismay.
It’s just like a form of power foreplay.
Yet, while others do it for a score
I twist within gracefully as a French braid.
I live for this pain.
This stress. It’s my private jet.
It’s all I can relate to.
When I’m upset. Or when
I force the threat of extreme stimulus,
Building upon the term: Giant sets.
Can I survive another night?
Restless with inflammation
Spasms unpredictable like a maniac’s conversation.
Teething me into an orchestration
I hadn’t ever begun to fathom.
I’m now gladden by it’s rambunctious anthem.