I write like I run,
with aches, with pains,
imperfect form, flailing,
my Achilles crying out.

I write like I run,
short of breath,
eyes lowered,
treading lightly and yet,
clumsily.

I write like I run
forced, heavy,
without technique, without finesse,
without grace.

I write like I run,
falling,
short of my potential,
questioning desires, skills,
purpose.

I write like I run,
with the voices, the chatter,
telling me to go on, telling me to stop.

Do something different.

I write like I run,
through the pain,
through the doubt,
with my heart.

I write. I run.
And that has made all the difference.