Stress Reliever

I pick it up

And turn it over

It balances perfectly in my hand

No chips

No dents

It's ready to use

My feet on the line

My arrows in the quiver

Ready to shoot

Waiting for the whistle

There it is

Thundering in the silence

We raise our bows

Nock our arrows

And it begins

The rumble grows

As we continue to shoot

And the arrows continue to fly

My anxiety leaps

As I reach for my last arrow

I nock it quickly and smoothly

And take a deep breath

Drawing the string back

Raising it to my lips

Getting ready to aim

I find my spot on the target

And move the curve to it

I hold my breath

And still every movement

This is it 

The final step

That will determine my score

I release

It flies

Curving down perfectly

It lands

Burying itself deep

But sadly

My aim was off

Too far to the right

Scoring me only a seven

But this does not discourage me

I will only try again and again and again

Archery

My stress reliever

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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