Something satisfying, yet so humiliating.
Throwing the perfect left hook, guided with bad intentions.
Feeling like De La Hoya at his best.

No gold medal will be honored for such animosity.
Flesh meeting plaster, drywall cascades.
Cavity made around my insignificant strike.

Such primal tendency, such an angry motive of strength.
A fifty dollar satisfaction that cannot be beat.
Simply smashing something man made, yet ashamed.

In common with a  ******* when it's over, not the great Golden Boy.
With the purity of destruction in my fist, the drywall was my moment.
Innate my primal rage grows, to control it is impossible.

That moment, I felt like I was dancing circles around Felix Trinidad.
Robbed as De La Hoya was, so too was my ego.
But as the Golden Boy, I cannot let this loss define me.