He was a man of flesh and blood. He wasn't made of rock angel, devil, child- a man of ordinary stock. But somehow he was different-true athletes always are-- For though he cursed, and bled, and sweat, his pride did not scar. They told him to win like a man, no matter what the cost; So many times he ventured forth; so many times he lost. And when he turned around and they said "It's ok son, you tried," He clenched his headgear in his fist and like a man he cried. And so he worked relentlessly; he struggled and he strained. His conscience whipped him mercilessly for every ounce he gained. He ran on legs of pistons, his muscled arms grew sore; he'd tell himself "I have to," then he'd ask himself "What for?" And then, at last the reckoning: the final hour was here. His stomach lightened dangerously, his muscles tensed with fear. Weak-kneed, he shook the challenger's hand-and then, as one possessed, his instincts gave him power, and his body did the rest. It was suddenly ended. His body seemed to scatter. A crowd was cheering somewhere, but to him it didnt matter. A thought was gleaming in his brain, a thought that made him smile. He'd given all he had, that is what made it all worthwhile. He stood and faced his teammates, with pride instead of shame. He knew not that he'd won or lost, but that he'd played the game. And some called him wrestler, and some called him a man. But he called himself a winner, and the ref held up his hand.

Here's another poem I found, no idea who wrote it. Maybe i'll write something someday for this thing..

"The Many Moods of a Woman"

An angel of truth and a dream of fiction,
a woman is a bundle of contradiction,
she's afraid of a wasp, will scream at a mouse,
but will tackle her boyfriend alone in the house.
She'll take him for better, she'll take him for worse
she'll break open his head and then be his nurse
but when he's well and can get out of bed
she'll pick up the tea-pot and aim for his head.
Beautiful and keenly sighted, yet blind,
crafty and cruel, yet simple and kind
she'll call him a king, then make him a clown,
raise him on a pedestal, then knock him flat down.
She'll inspire him to deeds that ennoble man,
or make him her lackey to carry her fan.
She'll run away from him and never come back
but if he runs away, then she'll be on his tracks
Sour as vinegar, sweet as a rose,
she'll kiss you one minute, then turn up her nose,
she'll win you in range, enchant you in silk,
she'll be stronger than brandy, milder than milk
at times she'll be vengeful, merry and sad,
she'll hate you like poison, and love you like mad.

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