Self destruction is a prerequisite to be a fighter,
we play ****** knuckles with ourselves till we're nearly dead,
just to prove that we are unbreakable, invulnerable,
and yet we still end up staining everything red.

We're all scars and trophies, made of contradictions
disciplined yet still all ruled by addiction
we can win any fight but can't beat this affliction
that we bought with our souls and conviction,

And then one day father time refuses to wait,
your knuckles scar over and your nose heals straight,
and when you die all you'll be able to show at heaven's gate,
is these scars, empty trophies, and the beautiful violence you used to create.