Who sits before you, in this ****** white shirt.
Busted nose, black eye, possible cracked rib.

You look at me and think I've been through hell, what if I told you this was a typical Monday for me.

I wear my scars on my body to show just how much I can handle, they may as well be medals, I am not made of glass.

I am not fragile.

You want to sit around and cry and whine and ***** about the wicked world, well let me assure you, I don't care about whatever you think is wrong with you.

You hide your scars, not because they're too ugly or too deep, not because it's too painful to remember, it's because they're not real scars.

You wound yourself in the mess tent then request a purple heart, you walk on the backs of everyone else and when you cross the finish line you think you've really made something of yourself.

At best you're a hack.

So here I sit, you can yell, scream and shout
it'll do no good.

I am not glass and you are not stone.

You a phantom of power, a specter of strength.

I'm warm blooded and couldn't care less about you.