A winner without a trophy

Caring parents, always protecting their own child.
Adult parents always preventing their children to be wild.

Excess of energy as a result.
Loneliness as a result.

Calm, clean body around a chain.
Spontaneous, curious spirit in your vein.

I want to go to the woods with Ray.
I am sorry, not today.

Five words transformed into a verse.
There is only Ray, nobody else.

Eyes deep in depression.
Heart, far away from generation.

Why are they so naïve?
I am not fragile.

Admiring colourful photographs of others.
Coursing young hysterical mothers.

Noise. As a choice. Emptiness.
Because of stress.

Always drowning in boredom.
I hate your life, Tom.

Then, an unexpected miracle.
Then, the blessing to run towards an obstacle.

Catching beetles in a forest.
Guess what, I was the best.

Throwing sticks into the lake.
Late arrivals, cold cake.

Tom and his neighbour.
On the road from January till December.

Suddenly, the duty to sit in a classroom.
Polite faces, victims of brooms.

Tall, noisy, and scary shadows.
Moving around in groups like hungry cows.

Sticky, never-ending concrete ground.
Ears collide with love killing sound.

Goodbye warm feels.
Desert tears!

Parents were not enemies.
Parents were keys.

Not the fear of what his son would do.
Fear of what others would do to their son.

One blueberry.
Hundreds of types of blueberries.

Poisonous, sweet, hurt or kind.
Out there, every type can be found.

Calm river, mute fish, pitiful worm.
Replaced by a swarm of bees, a non-empathic storm.

Should I stay, or should I run.
Where are you mother, I am your son.

Too small for this land.
Too wet for this sand.

Eat me.
Feed me.

Give me my hand.
Or break my hand.

Sometimes the reason to smile.
Sometimes the reason to cry.

Stars, a dark night.
Eyes, looking for a possible fight.

Birds, fresh sun.
Legs stretched, prepared to run.

Growing numbers on the ID.
Decreasing faith in ET.

Then, an unexpected miracle.
Then, gifted with the bond healing wounds from obstacle.

New family.
Ray, David, Nicole, Billy.

Piece of happy land.
Everybody on the same boat, like an Irish band.

Fat, slim, ugly.
Sometimes it looks like rugby.

Sweaty, smelly, angry.
Occasionally, an applause like in Wembley.

Or Sunday.

Always together.
Always proud even in bad weather.

Not following the ball.
Not shooting a goal.

True community.

To be part of something.
Such a beautiful thing.

Opinions, hate, dreams, problems, pain – all of this closed in a bag.
Only a strong, united team, drinking own saliva from one mug.

Nothing separates us.
Nothing judging us.

Pitch, court, pool.
Bunch of friends where life is cool.

Holding a trophy, together.
Singing the anthem, together.
Analysing the loss, together.
Burying desires, together.

All of the scars are healed – past.
All the sins are forgiven – past.

One loyal team.
Twelve or seventeen.

Teammates filling heart.
A whole strong like king’s guard.

Hours of building character.
One true stage, no actor.

Friendships, resilience, discipline, respect.
It gives you ore than you expect.