Everything comes down to this,
a broken hand, a bloodied fist.
I am beaten but I won,
though at what cost?
Give me the news my sorry friend,
how much have I really lost?

Somehow this is my war and I am its only casualty,
a faded number among empty statistics
of hours lost, spent and taken away from me.
I need sleep, I need something to **** these thoughts.
Cause time plus distance never equaled a ******* thing,
but a darker past to regret and a bigger **** pile to heave.

And push I do, onwards and up this mountainous regret,
where I will raise all of my anchors and bury all of my dead.