Three glassy-eyed half-assed rounds in,
But you could swear it was years, you think to yourself
as you tighten torn & rust-tinted tape around your blushing knuckles.
Slump in the solace of nights staying in,
citing friendlessness, but silently mouthing thanksgivings
for those select seconds of solitude.
Swallow that rock of bloody pride.
Fucking stomach it.
Let you shoulders loosen,
learn the curves of your lines & ligaments,
and stretch them with experience.
Allow air for uppercuts & undermining.
Beware of black thoughts, southpaws, false promises.
Take note of your tendencies: eradicate or elucidate them accordingly.
Precision is Clarity.
Love the dirt on your knees the sweat in your lids the blood on your lips your piston-pounding fist sized life-serum pump
because you are a moving living breathing seeing creating destroying emitting consuming art project of entropy at all times.
Run that self satisfied clock out and shock your spectators,
You were given fists, kid;
Fight, motherfucker, fight.