in the stillest moments of the night,
when the only company i have
are broken pencils and broken thoughts
and the only light in my vision
is my laptop, the blankness
taunting me,
i have an indescribable urge
to prove myself.

my soul, that space in my chest,
tells me to fight.
fight what? where? i ask,
wisps of my hair twining
between my tired fingers.

(my fingers are tired; of writing, of
those moments when
you can't envision your future
so you assume it's dead.)

that space in my chest replies,
quiet and determined:
fight the voices
in your ear,
telling you each and every way
you'll amount to nothing.
fight them, and win
simply because
you can.
fight expectations
prove those who
told you each and every way
you'll amount to nothing
wrong.
come out on top.
laugh in their faces.
prove you can fight. prove you can last.

prove you can win.