Mocked for the lack of education
but man,
you can't fault the dedication
Knocks out bad blood
and the guilt with his perspiration
to every other dude it's recreation
but to him it's the dream vacation
waits. cold sweat. train station in
december
street lights of ember illuminate a face
that doesn't want to remember
Between punches on pads
the same thought lingers:
can you live this life to september?
It makes the punches harder
and in buckets of sweat
you can let out a few tears
and if you always laugh
no one will know you sleep
with so many fears.
the arms are spaghetti
legs are jelly, gloves heavy
and it's always too early
The alarm rings at five thirty
and- don't think.
Run.
You where never the fastest one
but that never stopped you.
no matter what was in your path you kept on
if you weren't the best you at least got better
and always got back up when stepped on
even when taking the hurt for a life that wasn't yours
gliding hooks colliding with sliding jaws
"always keep your knees bent Sean
it's said tall boxers are susceptible to uppercuts
but not if you forever duck. See,
you don't have to have a weakness"
Trained on the weekends.
stretch in the train station in march
ashamed he has to make his legs arch
to make his fingers and toes touch
bed-ridden no-sleep just lays, mornings-
face full in a bowl of cereal
hearing voices he doesn't want to hear at all
faster punches thrown on kite hill
but now the school work is piling up
he looks at questions and loses his heart
hardly hard, what's there to hit?
he barely believes it, but, it's enough.
This wasn't the plan. There never was one i suppose
We make the most of what we've got, and given
but as the fights come and he brings in the wins
he still asks the question: Can you live this life to september?
and of course his birthday comes and he's still delivering hits
and only colin wilson notices it, my quickness has slipped
my focus has dipped, not that much, but, it's enough
"how you Sean, with yourself?"
zip-zap-boing. He hears it every morning
BTEC performing arts, flopped his gcses so he's wound up acting
to his classmates he acts like it's boring, like he'd rather be boxing
he can't admit it, it's so fucking, billy elliot, then the mind drifts
in the most dangerous of all places, the four cornered ring.
The concussion that then came kept him out the gym for a week
and with his nights now free. He couldn't avoid it anymore.
He had to think. it was him and his thoughts and he fought
harder than he did in his favourite sport.
as many individual thoughts as london street lights
blocked in and wrapped up over time,
he grabs a pen and paper and free's his mind
they're not confessions, or poems it's just free write
and when he looks at what he's done
he doesn't understand why he'd kept it all inside
street lights of ember illuminate a face
that writes lines i know you'll remember
he's a writer now but writes like a boxer
and owes a lot of his dedication
to a well educated trainer.
