Strike at Me

March 16, 2011
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I am beaten, battered, broken, bruised.
Left with memories of terror that will fade
Long after the cuts and scars and bruises recede.

I try to stop it, but it doesn’t always work.

I fall to the ground countlessly,
Always getting back up
As I wait for the next blow.

But where will it be?

The gut? The face?
Or somewhere even more painful?
Will I get up the next time?

But I do, I must.

They strike at me again and again,
One thought tramples through my mind;
Not the blood or pain or screams,

Not even the occasional tears.

My mind is consumed with what I must protect;
The soccer net standing proudly behind me.
As they violently kick the balls at me, I can only think,

I will not lose. I will not be beaten.





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