You tell me you can’t go on,
that you are sore,
sent to the brink of not being able to return.
But you’ve never listened to yourself,
or told yourself you can go on,
as a fighter,
someone that strikes first and asks questions later.
You pass by people who have betrayed
you with all their intelligence,
and you think they are better
but they aren’t,
and why you can’t accept that I’m not sure.
Their fingers and toes aren’t
anymore special than your own,
but you insist on burning both ends of the stick,
and it never makes sense
why you do this,
when your existence is never questionable.