What round is this anyway?
Somewhere in my subconscious
I heard the bell ring
signalling a new one.
Now my ears ring.
Equilibrium disoriented
while I search for my footing.
Skinned from glancing blows
and bruised from taking solid punches.

Back when I was a desert hermit
I decided to step back in the ring.
I guess my fight wasn't over
like I thought it was,
like I hoped it was.
I didn't have the heart
to drown myself in whiskey
or pull the trigger.

So here I am again
facing down a capitalist bull dog
and I'm the junkyard dog,
the stray dog,
shaved bare to hide the mange.
My ears got holes in 'em,
my flesh marred.
My eyes are barely there,
but I'm still here,
passing up scraps
going for the bigger meat.

My ribs show,
shoulder blades sharp
as the knife I wear
and cannot bear
to be separated with.
My teeth are discolored,
gums rolled back
like my lips in a snarl,
but they still cut.
I can still land a killing blow
against this raging,
'roided up beast.

I swallow depression,
along with blood
and caffeine.
I close one eye
against double vision,
spit out bile
and charge back in.
I can still win this fight,
can still earn my place.
I'm here to stay,
no matter how many times
you cast me away.