Control is the rusty metal bar in Middle School gym class.

Your hands gripped around it,

Your feet dangling in the air.

Your friend beside you laughing, asking who can hold on the longest.

But eventually both of your knuckles turn red,

Your palms rubbed raw.

One of you will let go first,

But eventually both of you will grow tired.

You’ll hear the teacher’s whistle calling out,

And you’ll both have to surrender to gravity’s weight until your feet hit the ground.

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