It is a survival instinct that drives me to fight.
The whisper in my ear that I am weak;
small and soft and easily crushed.
It is the knowledge that I am helpless
that forces my hand,
makes me sweat and bleed to be better,
to be stronger, to be harder to kill.
I’ve been knocking demons off my shoulders
for long enough now,
I don’t fear them like I once did.
I learned that real Evil exists
and so does real Love,
so I have one thing that needs defeating
and one thing that needs defending.
The line in the sand is definite,
I don’t see the world in shades of grey.
I am defined by my struggle.
Hardship merely provides a surface
suitable for sharpening my weapons.
Each day that I still breathe brings the chance
That I might gain one small step of ground
before the Reaper calls.
Facing the darkness,
never sure if I have made the monsters,
or if the monsters have made me;
not sure if it matters,
it doesn’t change anything.
It’s not my job to save the world,
but I sure as hell have to live here.
HG – 2016
