Here is a poem about how sore I am from preseason:
My body aches.
My arms.
Oh arms,
In which I use to pick things up.
My wrist,
The one that got hit at practice.
Poor wrist.
For it cannot bend or grasp,
Which is really becoming a pain in my ass.
Speaking of which,
Sitting is impossible without hearing a cry from my thighs.
"Help, Help!" They say...
Wondering why they just can't collapse and cry.
My toes..
Oh poor piggies.
Small and defenseless.
And beaten upon day after day.
I have already said my goodbyes,
To that small black and blue on my nail bed
for it shall be laid to rest soon.
My back must always be cracked
or else it'll go out of whack.
I beg and beg,
someone please roll out my muscles.
Over and over
My muscles cry.
Lastly,
my brain.
Oh poor squishy thing,
little mushy thing.
Each fall or blow takes away all of the smart things.
However, this is all okay,
because I love the sport that I play.
