The Not So Beautiful Game

I saw the hopes and dreams of my team
Ripped, then torn apart tonight
By corrupt officials and cheating players
Who care not for dignity, or sportsmanship,
Only the bastardisation
Of this once great sport.

The promising start fuels the passion
That is needed to drive the engine
Onwards, Forwards until goals come forth
From skill and perseverence
When facing the other team
On the field of battle.

OUTRAGE!
The stadium erupts in a galaxy of rage
When the stonewall is torn down
Right in front of everyone,
Everything is as clear as the summer's day sky
But it doesn't stop the injustice.

A display of skillful fireworks
Explode over the coming half hour,
Both armies are fighting well
And demonstrating their full range of abilities,
They are able to make the opposition bleed
Which nurtures the engine that powers the army.

A sudden blackout of information
Sweeps over the stadium.
The crowd is hushed in wonder of
Who will dare to make the next move.
What goes on behind these scene of confusion
Is prohibited, therefore interesting.

And I see that evolution has come into play,
The opposing army has adapted
To our skillful demonstration,
And gains an unnecessary advantage
As they already have corruption on their side
Portrayed by men clad in yellow, so we know who to shout at.

But it does not stop them
From yielding such power as their own,
Dignity, Nobility, Decency.
Torn to shreds by the unstoppable blade
Which is forged from an unholy alliance
That decimates all who stand in its way.

And I can only stand back and watch
The sadist torture unfold before me.
Jeering en masse echoes around the battlefield,
Who's shouting for who though,
I cannot tell from earshot alone,
When the cries call "CITY" from both ends.

We came. We played. We started out with so much potential.
We engaged them in battle, held them back.
We threw it all away like misspent youth.
We feel the aftershock, burning like a million suns.
It may have been just another match,
But at the end of the day, it's just no game.

Death on a Treadmill

People forever running
On treadmills to journey,
Through nowhere and everywhere
Standing still all your life.

Some people like fast paces,
Some prefer to run slow.
The thud thud thud of the feet
Reflect the heartbeat's pulse.

The ever changing pathway
Made by pressing buttons
That conjure the life changing
Bleeps and bloops symphony.

The puffing and the panting,
Start showing on the face
In beads of sweat and slower
Pacing on the treadmill.

Music helps to distract them
From the fact they are
Ever running out of time,
Until they fall off the end.

This is not a Poem

A man came up to me one day
And told me poems suck.
He kept on droning on and on
On how they are just muck.

He told me poems are not art
And rapping is the best.
I sat him down showed him my work
And got this off my chest;

"Mate, poetry is more than words
And you must listen here.
It is an art of crafting phrase,
Listen and you will hear."

He said, "This is not a poem!
It doesn't even rhyme!
It's useless boring Greek filled trash
It is a waste of time!"

"A poem doesn't have to rhyme,
It needs to flow" I said.
"A poem needs a rhythm but
That's gone over your head."

"But it still is not a poem,
It doesn't look like one."
"But words and phrases, they'll still live
After we're dead and gone."

We argue on for what seems hours
Until we hit a wall.
I ask, "Why do you feel this way
On poetry at all?"

"It's just a boring dated art
Which has no relevance.
I feel it has no place to fit
In today's present tense."

I said, "Poetry is timeless,
It merely just evolves.
Put passion in your words and watch
The poetry unfold.

But with your negativity
You won't know where to start.
Stick with me and I will teach you
The secrets of this art."

I taught him everything I knew
Of poetry and prose.
His new intelligence helped him
To bloom just like a rose.

He no longer thinks of poems
As dated useless slough.
He went on to write many things
To think, he's famous now!

He's very so accomplished much
And just think that's great.
The man I argued with is now
The Poet Laureate.

Untitled Sonnet No. 3

The choice, it looms
Before your face,
And you feel doomed
Unless you place
Your order clear,
And decisive
To the cashier,
Who gives it with
A friendly smile,
You take it then
But all the while
Waiting for 'when'
To then arrive
Is just no jive.