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Poemas sobre el tema: fight
Poemas sobre el tema «fight» en Poets.by.
the ring.
life is like a boxing match you can't seem to win,
you get so close.
you have your enemy pinned just for a second.
and then they pull a sneak attack,
wrapping you by the leg flipping you so you're back on the bottom once again.
i'm so tired of fighting.
exhausted of getting so close,
yet going nowhere.
so i gave my last fight my all,
and end up in the same position as every other time.
taking a deep breathe, inhaling all the sweat and tears from the fight
i let myself go.
i've surrendered to the ring.
Hand
If I break my hand
Will anyone care
If I hang myself
Will anyone care
I know they wont they dont give a fuck what I do
Say
Or how I act
I say fuck you
They say right back
I wanna punch the shit out of something but I dont
Jefferson Howard
My valiant fight! For I call it valiant,
With my father’s beliefs from old Virginia:
Hating slavery, but no less war.
I, full of spirit, audacity, courage
Thrown into life here in Spoon River,
With its dominant forces drawn from
New England, Republicans, Calvinists, merchants, bankers,
Hating me, yet fearing my arm.
With wife and children heavy to carry—
Yet fruits of my very zest of life.
Stealing odd pleasures that cost me prestige,
And reaping evils I had not sown;
Foe of the church with its charnel dankness,
Friend of the human touch of the tavern;
Tangled with fates all alien to me,
Deserted by hands I called my own.
Henry Tripp
The bank broke and I lost my savings.
I was sick of the tiresome game in Spoon River
And I made up my mind to run away
And leave my place in life and my family;
But just as the midnight train pulled in,
Quick off the steps jumped Cully Green
And Martin Vise, and began to fight
To settle their ancient rivalry,
Striking each other with fists that sounded
Like the blows of knotted clubs.
Now it seemed to me that Cully was winning,
When his bloody face broke into a grin
Of sickly cowardice, leaning on Martin
And whining out “We’re good friends, Mart,
You know that I’m your friend.”
But a terrible punch from Martin knocked him
Sung to the Social Reformer
Leave us our sorrows,
Take not our tears,
For long to-morrows
Of too perfect years.
To the New-born can you deny
The world-old solace of a cry;
Or to hot Youth the eternal right
To win his having with a fight?
Leave us our sorrows,
Take not our tears,
For long to-morrows
Of too perfect years.
Where the Fight Was
In the place where the fight was
Across the river,
In the place where the fight was
Across the river:
A heavy load for a woman
To lift in her blanket,
A heavy load for a woman
To carry on her shoulder.
In the place where the fight was
Across the river,
In the place where the fight was
Across the river:
The women go wailing
To gather the wounded,
The women go wailing
To pick up the dead.