When you get hit
Get up.
The ground is not worthy enough for you to stay down.
But every slap that life deals you across the face
Every punch that is dug into my chest.
Trying to stop my heart.
And cut off my whole conscious situation.
Tells you that some touches are not gentle
Some reaches by people are not meant to help
And every time someone ***** a fist at you.
It is an opening for you to punch back.
Where their fist isn’t
That hurts.
Good.

Because whatever is attached to the arm, is a body.
With feelings and bones that can break as they wanted me to.
Ouch.
Either I say it or they will
But it has to be said.
Hopefully after we both smashed.
I’m just banking on them saying it first.
With life’s teeth on my fist.
I don’t want to fight no more
Good.
I never did.
But this is not a fight.
This is discipline.
Because my hits don’t make life chaotic
My hits make life calm down.