When fighting this fight that’s changing my life
my mind is oblivious of when I’ll ignite
a power of winning that’s better than sinning
that leaves me content and continually grinning.
Yet I’m stuck in this muck that doesn’t know luck
and I’m burdened by weight that changes its shape
to stay on my peace and never will cease
until I am lost and triumph’s a ghost.
I no longer boast because I’ll just roast
when my weakness is seen upon this obscene
display of my failure that I granted some favor
that continues to win and triumph again.
I’m told to be positive and fight the negative
yet there’s no sedative and these words are repetitive,
I am the recipient of this brutal ingredient
of succumbing to the world and hiding while curled.
Cowering in a ball and never standing tall
when strength is leaving and my body is heaving
from this taste of disgust that seems like a must
for achieving any greatness that is freed from plainness.
This mirror image always feels like a scrimmage
because I’m always fighting against myself
and my opponent is worse than my worst component
of drowning in muck where passion is stuck.
Forget that I tried and pretend that I died,
this struggle’s a muzzle contained in a puzzle.