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Ari Oct 9
These are my people
And these mats are our home.
We connected through the passion
Embedded in our bones.

Everyday we’re here
We’re renewed on our mats.
Theres sweat, tears, and blood on our Gis,
On our rash guards and spats.

We strive to train hard
And always remember
This family we’ve created
We’ll never surrender.

-ARI
Sanny Oct 1
So much work and determination for that moment.

Weeks of training, to predict all the opponent's moves.

Tears of frustration, blisters and bruises all over your body.

Looking at others enjoying food you're not allowed to touch.

Running, with a burning feeling in your chest.

All for that moment, those 4 minutes that can change everything.

Judges lined up, blue and red flags in their hands.

The fear of them not raising your color in the end.

The surrounding sounds go away.

Fighting gear on, nodding to you coach's distant words.

The sweat starts running under your helmet, heart's racing fast, the adrenaline kicks in.

The sign is given, it's time.

The mat feels bigger than it looks.

With shaky legs you walk out, to bow for your opponent.

Facing each other, you'll never forget the eyes of your enemy.

The whistle blows, the moment has arrived. It's time to put the weeks of training into action.

One final deep breath.

Fight. Fight for the time you've sacrificed.

Fight with all your might, to earn that medal around your neck.

Cause in that moment it's worth everything.
Vexren4000 Jul 22
A garden planted at the height of spring,
Growing aching for sunlight,
The sun blesses the crops,
The farmer harvests,
The world goes round,
And society sits,
Forgetting the arts that fed them so well,
Now being reduced to babes being bottle fed.

©BAS
Poems:

What a dream of writers,
Upon its grand galore?
Lifting hands upon Poe,
To ask forever more?
An Ernest near his sea,
Of Dante’s own heaven.
Fun to see Angelou,
With The loved Whitman be.  
My dear Plath of saving,
Nestled on her pillows.
So pleased to see the Frost,
Odd this time of willows.
Pleased my own time of miles,
A spirit dream of Niles.
For all Times...
The artist knows how to play a poor hand well. In utter style, causing envy.
On rainbow edge. Knowing truth beyond illusion. The surface mingles along
painting colours, wishing it would drop and fall over this earth's surface. Moan
and sigh. Existing art, modern magic.
(knowledge Variable)
Amanda Apr 17
Writers are perpetually emotional
At least we have big hearts
Unaffected disconnected people
Are not meant for the deeper arts
What more is there to say?
SoZaka Mar 27
We make our own reality
without a word
of vocabulary
tell me a story
write it in the stars

sing my blessings
shout my praises
tell me that you love me
by spelling out my name
in your mind
and in mine.

tell me our voice comes from above
its all better for the wiser,
who knows who to love
who to love

and that's you
and that's me
and that's you
and that's
telepathy
another realm of love
vik Mar 23
My religion teacher doesn't care about the arts.
But what if I don't care about religion?
My parents forced me to go to a catholic school. But I am going to study arts in college. Why can't you accept that the arts is some peoples vocation in life. You explain in class how things we're good at or find an attracting too at a young age is our vocation. I fell in love with the arts at a young age.
Stop being a hypocrite Mr.Majewski and respect the arts.
I'm not religious.
Pastelblitz Mar 20
Would people look at me differently?
If the arts hurt me and left scars instead of a silver that I turned red

If playing my clarinet gave me splitting migraines and blood shot eyes

If typing poems in my notes gave me splinters in my thumbs and tore off my fingernails

If sketching on paper ripped open my hands and gave me blisters

What if the arts were my pain

Instead of a blade that’s now long gone

Would I be better at them?

Would people still pity me and look down on me knowing that the arts harmed me

Or would people treat me differently because I’ve been through something horrific to make something so beautiful
“And it’s the last piano in the world, and its keys cut his fingers with every note he plays..” -Dave Malloy
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