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nada jawa Mar 2015
i need a poem about Real Madrid football team
Sean Flaherty Mar 2015
I used to be a good listener
Now, "I'm sure I've heard that before."
Arguing with Eros, arrogant, erudite.
At odds with his arrows. Even angry.

Bumping numbered reminders of the
Year I was leaving behind,
Headed for the hyphen.
Orange gunk, proper circumstance, and
Cagey, coughing.
"I want to be
Soaked in style, and left
Drying on a dusty line. See...

"I'm an ugly *******,
But my eyes are alive.
And the tragically beautiful's
All I've got left."
Killing, time and
Battery life, requesting
The chance to
Breathe in my city.

The edges of a crucifix
Etched into his visage.
Looking for good luck, and
"That USA Gold taste,
To remind you of home," in India.
Walking away from a car crash.

Not heavy, dry,
But frozen solid.
Trekking on, past beautiful women that are
Painting their walls.
Poems, pouring from the
Mouths of the desperate,
Echo down the alleys.

"I'm not sure to whom belong these bones,
'Cuz they sure as hell ain't mine." But
Remember? That December? We
Bled blue and silver,
Sledding down seven-foot snow banks, and
Kicked out for stepping on toes.
My poems aren't usually so liberal with the usage of the word "I," but consider this a soliloquy of sorts.
He wipes the moisture from his brow
The colour of a tomato fills his face,
as soon as we heard "GO!" he was gone,
doesn't he know that slow and steady win the race?

I don't run, I just walk slowly
I see my mother in the crowd, telling me to hurry.
Hasn't she realized that I am the Tortoise
and he is the hare.

I know I am right,
it said so in a book
we are racing around a circle
I see him and give a smug look.

For I am clever,
and he is nearing the finish line now.
haha how foolish!
He should've walked like I am,
now he'll have to rest his head in shame,
and just allow me to win this.

For he is the Hare,
but I am the tortoise.
And even the famous book says
"Slow and steady wins the race".
PieLovinUnicorn Feb 2015
I serve
To my team

I catch
with my face

I pass
To the floor

I score
Into the net

And yet
I frown
By smiling

And win
By losing

A defeat
Can be a good victory
Its all about sportsmanship
This is some true stuff that happen to me
Peter Simon Feb 2015
Faded clothes,
Burnt face,
Sticky hair,
Filthy palms,
Bloodshot eyes,
Sweaty arms.

Dried throat,
Painful thighs,
Sore feet,
Divided crowd,
Pitiful players,
Swollen knuckles.

Torn hope,
Crumpled chance,
Sunned court,
Tumbling scores,
Coughing points,
Silver lining.
This is what I felt after a good match under the sun.
Miss Liss Feb 2015
99

Dear number ninety nine,
I see your small town heart,
But tell me through the fame and success,
Does it feel far apart?

You seem to have all you've wanted,
Built on hard work and big dreams.
But please tell me, is having it all
Really all it seems?

Do you feel totally fulfilled?
Or is something missing you can't explain?
Are you searching for more greatness?
Is there something else you need to gain?

Dear number ninety nine,
It seems your hard work has been rewarded.
But did you ever stop to think of the One,
From whom all your gifts were awarded?

With all the awards and accolades,
All the credit goes to you,
But I wonder if deep in your heart,
You give the credit where it's due.

The man who throws players to their knees,
Do you ever get on yours and pray?
The man who leads in many stats,
Do you ever let God lead your way?

Dear number ninety nine,
Nobody is perfect, you and I will fail and be weak,
Times like these I look to God for strength,
Who is it that you seek?

In times of doubt and insecurity,
How do you feel secure?
Is it by working out and pushing yourself through
The hardest exercises you can endure?

The times you feel empty and broken,
How do you feel whole and new?
Is it by new cars and vacations,
And doing whatever you want to do?

Dear number ninety nine,
I love your work with those who defend our nation.
Without even knowing it, you're doing the work
Of the King of all Creation.

Like all you do for underprivileged kids,
Providing them athletic equipment to compete.
By allowing them to play sports,
You help keep them off the street.

People of all ages look up to you,
But what if you gave them more to see?
Kids want to be like you when they grow up,
But what if you gave them more to be?

Dear number ninety nine,
Does that small town heart beat for the love of God?
Or for simply the love of the game,
And giving it all you got?

Do you think of the people you can help,
Or the opponents you can defeat?
Do you train your body for your work,
Or do you train to be God's hands and feet?

Imagine what would happen
If everyone who know and love you,
Would also by association
Know and love God too.

So when you lock yourself in your cabin,
To find peace and train alone,
I challenge you to find your God,
Who will train you from his throne.

Your heart will beat, and your hands and feet
Will move in ways you've never known.
Your thinking will change for the better,
Your mind will be heavenly blown.

There's a peace you never knew possible,
A strength you never knew existed,
A mental toughness shining light
On a society so dark and twisted.

Dear number ninety nine,
I know it's pizza you like to deliver.
But what if you could provide the hope
That calms every shake and quiver.

You know how to score a touchdown and touch a life,
But tell me can you touch a heart?
With the kind of love and faith that never fails,
Something that won't ever fall apart?

Dear number ninety nine,
I see your face on the television,
But do tell me does it always reflect
The face of God's mission?

At 23 years I haven't seen what you  can see,
But I know the greatest sight was the one that's in me.
No superbowls, photo shoots, or riches can ever satisfy my thirst,
Like how it feels in my heart to put my Lord and Savior first.

You seem to be the headline of every story,
But few are dedicated to giving God glory.
Tell me, are you shy or afraid of offending?
Or are you going to keep going through life pretending?

You can isolate your self to build every muscle,
You can train all you want to have more strength and hustle.
But if you don't give thanks, listen to the spirit, or pray,
You may not be reaching your greatest potential each day.

One muscle will still be neglected,
unless one day god's temple is erected.
Your heart is the muscle that shows true strength
Following God's path to every length.

You're in the hearts of so many people,
Imagine what would happen if their hearts would build a steeple
If your heart filled with God, maybe theirs would be too,
But it all starts with number 99, it can begin with you.
the blonde poet Feb 2015
I love sports.
I love that the worst experience isn't getting last, it's getting second.
I love that I can drift into another world when I play.
I love that my teams are all like family to me.
I love that there is an infinite outcome to every scenario in a game, and each game has hundreds of thousands of scenarios.
I love that sports a combination of wit, coordination and logic.
I love seeing my heroes smile.
In a close second I love seeing them cry, as it reinforces my idea of how much they love the game.
Most of all, I love that sports are a unity throughout the world. The rifts known as rivalries bring us closer together.
FreeWritingPoems Jan 2015
They deflated the ball
They had no problem catching it at all
They kept one inflated to kick
Cheating lost them their draft pick.

Why did you have to cheat?
You still wouldn't of faced defeat
Second time cheating since spy-gate
Now, you have deflate-gate
Sam Knaus Oct 2014
(October 17th, 2013, I think is when I wrote this.)

There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
I have bad grades.
I’m aware of this, but they
still insist on shouting as if
three letter F’s
determine my worth
as well as my ability.
I’m not athletic,
never been remotely decent
at sports,
picked last for soccer,
football, basketball,
and everything else,
tried to do parkour once-
however,
that hope quickly dissolved
when I discovered
that it was still nerve-wracking
for me to climb a fence.
(One of the many gifts
that comes with a severe
lack of coordination.)
I’m not a quiet person.
I don’t know
how to hold my tongue
most of the time.
So when my father’s paycheck
is cut shorter and shorter,
when he makes little enough as it is,
my stay-at-home mother
fighting her demons of
the severe depression and anxiety
that she passed down to me
as well as her (auditory) hallucinations,
her BPD,
her physical disabilities,
not making a paycheck at all,
and my school supplies
consist of 50-cent notebooks
that fall apart,
and 75-cent pens,
I get a little… “upset”.
I’ve played guitar for three years.
Sometimes, it’s what I’m best at,
playing strings of notes
and minor chords
that come together to form
beautiful harmonies-
but more often than not,
every note is sour…
Another thing I’m not good at.
But I am a writer.
People don’t pay attention
to teenagers, they say
We’re so full of ourselves,
We think we’re so important,
they say
We need to communicate,
but when we try
all they hear
is whining, and complaining.
Teenagers telling their friends
in passing conversation
that they’re suicidal,
that they hurt themselves,
just to see who will notice-
who will listen-
and of course, no one does.
Nobody notices that
teenagers are the voice
of our generation,
and our generation,
as such,
is royally ******
because nobody pays attention.
There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
But I am a writer.
And I have
a voice,
a pen…
And paper torn
from a 50-cent notebook.
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