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JM McCann May 2015
Meh speed is fun, no not the drug.
Wish that came earlier.
****** up my race on a ******* attack.
Finished off the back.
The ******* scrub, placed or some ****.
I didn’t listen.
We agreed before to be at each other necks.
We like it that way.
I should have made him feel like ****.
All he does is sit.
People ******* hate his guts.
He is fourteen.
Solely responsible for ******* up his future.
I try to help.


I might try to back him up, or burry him.
I’m not sure yet.
His dad is nice, his mom is full of ****.
I do extra to shut her up.
His dad cheered for me at the race.
No **** I’m trying.

I thought his sister had a crush on me.
She’s like thirteen.
I kinda, almost, at one stage liked her.
We are tied together.
They are a tight family and he is stuck to my wheel.
He *****.
Tremendous respect for that ***** though.
I know how it hurts.
A ******* monster attacking your soul.
Burnt legs, crispy spirits.
The monster tells me I’m going the right way.
Can’t stop.
This was a poem really celebrating my rivalry with this kid on bikes. We race in complete opposite ways, came from the same program he stayed I left, anyway hope you enjoy.
(memories from a lost youth)

Shoe leather for brake pads
we scuffed to a stop.
"Their" cried Derek "It's their"
Tumbling down hill scratching
and ripping through
bramble thicket we gave
chase.
Into the newly plowed field
splurging treacle like, through
mud that tried to **** off your
feet.
We stopped in shock
as a gust of wind lifted the
bright red balloon, with its
unread message waving to at us;
as the wind carried it on to
where?
Derek screamed words you can't
say to an adult when your only
ten.

Defeated we splurged back to our bikes.

— The End —