Baton Race Poem by Achim Wollscheid

I need strength and it is passed onto me like a baton would be.
When it is in my hands, I run the race with all of my might until my part is finished.
My legs ache as I dash, my eyes are unsteady, the hot sun creates the heat waves that divert me.
If only I had a stronger start; if only, if only, if only goes my thoughts for the extent of the track.
It frightens me to know, at this point, there is no turning back.
'Why am I in this race? ' I question myself again and again when my lungs begin to give out, and my stomach gives in.
The crowd is brash and insulting, their words give me no relief;
The crowd is against my strong belief.
They mock and shout and wish for my failure, and it disheartens me to the point where I nearly fall to my knees and weep.
There is only one factor that pushes me towards the end:
I hear the rising voices of my team as I near the next runner to deliver on the baton; they are cheering, they are leading me on.
And before I have time to be concerned, before I whimper or sigh,
The baton is in the hands of another, and my burden is exchanged.
And then my strength is restored and my mind finds its focus, not on the merciless crowd but, on the fact that I am finished.
And I forget about my pain, it doesn't even exist.
When I look back at the race, I'm satisfied I persisted.