Dodgeball

rubber missiles snapped through the dirty air,  

a whistle blast—and the carnage began.  

an army of kids, bent on survival,  

their faces like flags of desperation,  

dodging, throwing, falling, shouting,  

on the scuffed wood or cracked asphalt.  

the ball wasn’t soft, it was fury,  

it smashed into sides, thighs, faces,  

a red blur of humiliation and triumph,  

leaving welts like war's lingering whispers.  

the heroes were the ones who stood  

until the rubber kiss marked them,  

sweat and pride smeared under fluorescent lights.  

but somewhere in the 2000s, they decided  

pain was too sharp a teacher,  

victory too cruel, failure too public.  

foam balls replaced the sting of meaning,  

and rules grew like fences around the chaos.  

now there’s no slap of rubber vengeance,  

no awkward bruises to nurse in silence,  

just softer blows and gentler voices,  

teaching us to play without breaking.  

but god, where’s the thrill in that?