Fake: An Original Poem

When I make my way down to the ring, the crowd begins to chant and sing. The excitement in the air makes the arena shake, but I guess all of that must be fake.

When I see their passion and their pride, and hear the chorus sing at ringside. When I hear them gasp and boo and scream, is this whole thing just one big dream?

When I walk past and feel their hands slap mine, or the sudden sting from a stiff clothesline. When I feel all the emotions these fans invoke, I guess all these feelings are simply a hoax.

What about the stabbing pains in my side? The shooting twinges up my spine? The freshly-sown stitches in my brow? I guess it all must be fake somehow?

And what about the blood all over the place? The spewing crimson that came out of my face? My fluids and guts have painted the mat, how on Earth did I manage to fake any of that?!

What about the many years of wear and tear? My joints and bones desperate for repair? My life is controlled by the pain that I feel, but luckily for me it’s apparently not real.

And then there’s my family I haven’t seen in weeks, my adult daughter that I am yet to meet. All of the birthdays and holidays that I missed, but still, “It’s fake!” they all insist.

My fallen friends who are here no more, the warriors that died for this sport we adore. Yes, it may be predetermined when we strike or slam, but how dare you call our lives a sham?!

Wrestling is more than a four letter word, at times it’s bad and at times absurd. But please, never call it fake, I plea, because wrestling will always be real to me.


For more wrestling, follow @HairyWrestling on Twitter.

For more poetry, follow @HansonBlackout on Twitter.

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