This I wrote a few months ago and combines fighting and writing, I decided to post the first. Hope you like it and I also hope his criticism!
WHAT IS POETRY? WHILE YOU SAY MY KEY IN PUPIL ...
"What is poetry?, Say while you nail
In my ward your blue pupil. What
is poetry! And you ask me? Poetry
you. "
laughs. It is the first reaction when reading the poem is printed in one of those packets of sugar to sweeten more culturizar claim. Finish the first coffee of the day, after reading it that he is a total lie, especially when just read on an empty stomach, at six o'clock on a Monday. Pick up the cup, puts it in the sink, throw the deep breath papelillo wise and knowing what to expect. A tiny part of it, one party always believes he has killed, one party always raises a shameful part of a warrior's heart, he hints that it is not worth: it is already hard enough reponedor exercise for eight hours a day, why is punishable by seven kilometers before joining?. Enough is enough sacrifice going to the gym three hours a week, why spend twenty-four? And proves to be someone in life simply by being him what he better get on an arena to exchange blows with another man? But the boxers, most boxers or at least, this boxer, understood not excuses. This boxer, steeped in oppression, shakes his head as if to pull out the tick chupóctera brain that there would continue to stay on the couch, sunk in indifference, until that almost was too late to go to work ... When you throw the intruder, which has injected even unintentionally a few eggs that eventually hatched, he puts on the beach, the keys were attached to the neck, place the dental protector will shake their breathing and is limited tracksuit armor like a knight. Nothing more to start running the rain starts, but not nice to make fresh sparking the morning is more of a rain that penetrates inside the shell of cotton, increasing the weight of it, while giving it a cold dense , sticky ... Think about going back-hatch eggs, to get a waterproof, but a step back in the ring, could mean the defeat ... Cid did not give rise to doubts about the lion, never fell, but in a totally anti-human, totally unnatural, went decided against the cat, grabbed his back and, with the greatest respect, locked them in his cage to the shame of their own sons. In the corridor leading from the locker room to the ring, the mind is rational and prefer to stay on target, while the fighter, accompanied by music and shouting, like a harangue, moving toward his opponent, moves towards focus of the pain, the focus moves to the fear, the focus moves to the uncertainty ... so a little cold can not make it back. Watch the
just watch and have spent fourteen minutes. Soldier Front a slope that seems to have a right angle. Without delay, which starts as a plaster on a wound not yet closed, is about to raise it in one go ... Before arriving in half, and considering the lower up-breaks an egg, so that the heart is burst like a pimple with pus in the chest box ... But instead, it prints even more speed and continues to rise not to the top, but towards the conquest of self-esteem, as King Leonidas who predicted ephors you should choose between his life or his honor ... the delay is virtually nonexistent for those who know that pride, self-esteem that are the real existence for it is better to walk once elephant feet to do it by always standing worm. The Spartan comes to the top: a straight line before him, behind him a slope, you will not see around the corner, to avoid the drop. Continuing
running, and in the back. Look at the clock and you will forty-eight minutes. Suddenly, you realize that fatigue-bam ... another egg, "I bow my head is doing. It complains about it and just like a shogun in the heart of Zipangu, raises her head, not up: the true samurai, not down the chin, because he knows that no adversary is a god ... any adversary has strengths and weaknesses to defend the to take advantage ... not the chin up into the sky, it also knows that all opponents will learn and that all opponents have to be alert. Above, only the Olympus that crushes egos intoxicated and below only the underworld which houses rotting carcasses ... before, just the challenge. One can never take your eyes off the opponent, because you will not see from where comes the shock ... one can never look up at the lights, it will blind your eyes ... you can never lower the view of the canvas, because you lose the notion of balance ... Any warrior knows that in the battlefield, we must all look at your target to achieve victory and that only in moments of greatest despair You can direct your eyes to the corner for support.
Look at the clock one last time. Fifty-seven minutes. In the stretch, when he sees his street, is expressed before this message:
"What is poetry?, Say while you nail
In my ward your blue pupil.
What is poetry! And you ask me? Poetry
you. "
He smiles and runs faster-erupts-last egg to get home as soon as possible. While ending, while recalling with joy that after leaving work, it only took three hours to put your boots and gloves, to return to their particular Agogo, think the poet was wrong: poetry, is that you depart the lip and notice how the taste of blood mixed with accumulated slime mouth, but you still boxing ... poetry, is that your family will take on obsessive and almost all your friends mad, because they laugh and lie, while you bleed and sweat ... poetry is impregnarte a black oily sweat, when you embrace the man you've beaten ... poetry is pain, sacrifice, is grief, is misunderstanding, honor, blood, victory, sweating, fever ... but it has never been nor will be in my pupil your blue pupil.
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