On the field the lights are blinding
They are florescent and unbecoming
Without the just the right angle
The grass is green, wet, and freshly cut
Appearing to be painted beneith my feet
Outfield is wide and open
The air is mine to breath
Batter up
I am ready
Catching pop-flies
Is what I do
It is why my face
Appears in magazines
And on TV
"She plays well, it's what she does"
They say
Pop
Pop
Pop
Three outs and the crowd goes wild
The game continues
And I am MVP
Till the last inning-
Bases loaded and this
Is the one that counts
My head is in the game
I anticipate the roars
Of wild fans
When I bring it home
Only...
I don't
I fumble
I fall
I fail
And I don't know
What to make of it
What to make of myself
Because who am I
If I am not playing well
If it is not what I do
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