With defeat placed into your rejecting hands,
You fall back,
Not knowing what to do or to say,
The enemy throws phrases and unwavering facts,
Like shelves of books tumbling onto your body.

Your mind freezes,
Your lips twist and turn Whiteley grim,
Your fists clenched darkly,
The touch of defeat is not a proud feeling,
And worse; when you are the bad guy.

Racing through your drawers of comebacks,
But unable to find any,
You kneel to the hard ground,
And you bow your unwilling head low to your nemesis,
They have won and left you lying in the mud of regret.