My Strength

I converse with God
but I can only hear my typer
bleeding out on to
the white concrete.
Left to die
but no one is home.
There’s only me in
a room for two.
With a view,
I imagine
my life–
What it could have been
And what it was.

I keep my enemies close
and my words closer.
Eating the keys that spill
out from my broken soul.
Filling my stomach
with the struggle I have inside.

My words are fighting words.
Always underrated,
I use my machine gun as a fist,
and the blood from my knuckles
to my finger tips,
as fuel for a fire set ablaze
by heartbreak.

Where i’ve fallen more than I can count
and my sweat and my tears
drip after each bout,
my pigment has turned black and blue.
Yet, my words keep me rising
with the strength and conviction
of a seldom few.
All I can do is pick myself up,
brush off and say
Fuck you.

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