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Francis Oct 27
Bobbing and weaving,
Slipping and jabbing.

The fighting stance against a thousand opponents,
All of whom, look like me,
Is a stance I can only articulate,
In a mirror,
Shadow boxing that guy,
Strangely looking like me.

Pop-Pop BANG,
I throw punches at the air in front of me,
This bull can rage like Cinderella in a cage,
A square, roped cage,
Where life’s uppercuts put me in a daze.

The fighter in me,
One stubborn little *******,
Iron-jawed and iron-clawed,
Always taking one to the gut,
I fall down and so ruthlessly get back up.

24 and 0,
I’m the undefeated world champion,
My opponent remains consistent,
But I’m not afraid,
I got this far,
You think I can’t go a few more rounds?
In Corrections, they used to say “Stay in the fight,” when it came to enduring the strenuous work hours and horrible conditions. Guess I applied those words to my every day life.
Malia Jun 12
It creeps up 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 of you
The darkness.
I can feel it too.
It reaches up and 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒔 you
And pulls you
Some days it has me in a 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌
A headlock inside my 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅
Locked because I
Some nights my mind 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 at me
Like it’s 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚
Like it’s 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 me for something.
The 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 fly so fast they’re like 𝒋𝒂𝒃𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔
In the boxing ring.

I try to fight them.

Some nights I come out 𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔.

Not tonight.

I’m 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅, feeling each 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒘 like a million 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒔 on my 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕.

𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.
𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.



Why can’t I 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 how to 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆?
ngl the slam poetry format just hits different. Ha, get it, 𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘴 different XD
Norman Crane Aug 2021
on the ropes: pummelled;
somehow, he stays on his feet:
the bell ends the round!
Randy Johnson Apr 2021
I'm an ex-prizefighter and my name is Glass Joe.
If you're wondering if I could win fights, the answer is no.
I got my *** kicked by a shrimp and his name is Little Mac.
I got knocked out in the first round when that boy attacked.
I'm called Glass Joe because my jaw is made of glass.
It was humiliating because anybody could kick my ***.
People laugh at my losses and it's something I resent.
I happen to be Glass Joe Biden and I'm the President.
I run America but I sure can't take a punch.
If you hit me in my stomach, I'll lose my lunch.
I lied to everybody when I said that I came from France.
I got *** whippings in the ring, I never stood a chance.
Even old women could knock me out and I'm not a fighter anymore.
If Americans learn that I lost ninety-nine fights, I won't win in 2024.
This poem was inspired by the Punch-Out video game
ju Dec 2020
wanna be her cutman?

you’ll trace every wound, grease
all her vulnerabilities
and the taste of forged metal
will flavour your dreams

she’ll dance with you watching,
a storm over canvas
and she’ll swing for those *******
like a silk-wrapped machine  

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll watch as each cut’s inflicted
then wait your turn to touch
to your hand she’ll ever-be Vaseline slick
or sticky with blood

she’ll hide vibrant colours behind
gunmetal hues but beneath careful fingers
her scars will tell truths- and
they’ll burn fire tattoos into your heart

wanna be her cutman?
you sure?

(you’ll wish dead every guy
has her over ropes or on canvas, but  
she’ll be eyeing those guys while
you’re fixing her up)
Well this turned out super cheesy. Never mind.

she tells it to the cutman
ju Dec 2020
gloves-off, she
leans on her back foot
moves fast and hides tired eyes
behind a battle-blue arm  

from a punch-bloodied mouth
she spills and spits words out on canvas
makes way for cool air- tries to
pacify lungs before they explode, calm
a heart that longs to rebel

she needs to feel loved, but can
be understood only by tracing braille-like-trauma
on her Vaseline skin-
and if she’s not out for the count
she doesn't keep still
When I first met you, I cried.
Looking upon your silhouette, I wondered.

Reading your articles, I wanted to know you.
Searching for hours, I would find you.

A traveling boxer, just breaking into fame.
A husband, a father.

She moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and was your demise in 1902.
I moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and I will remember you.

A decade younger than her, but I feel the responsibility heavy on my shoulders. The resemblance to me, uncanny

She took you to your grave and I will celebrate your life.

Why did it have to take this long?
Check out the Alonzo Tucker Project on Facebook and YouTube to learn more about this man.
Carlo C Gomez Jul 2020
Rages are red
My opponents black n' blue
The sound of the bell
Means it's time to be fed
And as you know
I never bite off
More than I can chew
In Memory of Evander Holyfield's ear (1962-1997)

Thomas W. Case's Historical Figure Poetry Challenge, Mike Tyson.
Michael Stefan Mar 2020
Cassie Lane Gray, ever so slight of frame
Hit harder than a train, playing her martial games
Cassie ran eight miles a day, and she never strayed
Her routine was tough as iron, her boxing gloves were frayed

Her momma put her in ballet, but later on, she disobeyed
Strapping wraps to wrists, uppercut finisher each day
And when she said she wanted to box, her momma turned away
But she was gonna fight, with no one in her way

Cassie Lane Gray grew up poor in San Jose
Never had much to say, just wanted in the fray
Her ballet, in a way, made her opponents pay
As she moved with dancer's sway, they later would convey

Cassie's family prayed that she would portray
The sweet and simpering visage of a classy dame
But it wasn't in the cards, for Cassie Lane Gray
The "Bantam Weight Ballerina"
A strong young fighting woman
Was in the ring to stay
This poem was inspired by a filthy ragtag tomboy friend that I spent a lot of my youth with.  She was tough as nails and loved to box.  Her parents had tried to put her on the pageant circuit every year, and every year they would find her in a ripped and muddy dress, fighting with the boys.  She was such a wonderful person and despite several state boxing championships, her parents never loved or appreciated her work and accomplishments.  Follow your dreams and don't let anyone try fit you into their mold.
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