I think it’s safe to say we’ve all been very busy in our lives, and that during that time, we had no idea when it would ever end, or who we’d become after it was all said and done. I, along with everyone else who’s ever had to grow up, know that with time and age comes more responsibilities.
I’ve been feeling it lately, and I’m trying to be aware of it so I don’t get lost in it. To me, that would be the worst possible scenario. However, I know that while you’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to separate yourself from what you’re busy with because you want to get everything done.
I’ll also admit that I don’t really know where I heard the word trudge before. I had to look it up to be sure I was using it correctly, and the definition definitely makes the most sense for what I want this poem to represent.
Trudge: to walk or march steadily and usually laboriously. In other words, a difficult journey, but not an impossible one. In a way, it’s encouraging because there are zero implications that the person who’s trudging can’t get through whatever it is they’re going through: snow, mud, a difficult time.
It being a verb means something is happening, even though it’s not happening very quickly. As long as it, or something, is happening, you’re in a better position than one who lets him/herself stay stuck.
I walk through the swamp,
feet trudge through the muck,
suction cups against my feet
trying so desperately
to swallow me whole,
smelling like death, regardless
of how sweet it’d be
to disappear; however,
the will to live pushes me
forward through the pain
I lose my shoes in the process
(it’s all just a process),
I get out unharmed,
but now I carry the swamp
with me at all times.
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