This is the hill I will die on.
I choose to stand on the high ground,
And fight in the war.
I will be bloodied.
Bruised.
Broken.
But I will not run to the safety,
In the home at the bottom.
I will not cry for mercy,
As you raise your blade above my bowed head.
I will stay.
I will empty your lungs of hot air,
And shove you over the edge.
I will watch your body lie at the bottom,
Pointed at gruesome angles.
For in your one-sided battle to knock me down,
I have turned the tide.
This place that I have chosen to rest
Is no longer my grave,
But yours.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 7:19 PM UTC
This is the hill I will die on.
I choose to stand on the high ground,
And fight in the war.
I will be bloodied.
Bruised.
Broken.
But I will not run to the safety,
In the home at the bottom.
I will not cry for mercy,
As you raise your blade above my bowed head.
I will stay.
I will empty your lungs of hot air,
And shove you over the edge.
I will watch your body lie at the bottom,
Pointed at gruesome angles.
For in your one-sided battle to knock me down,
I have turned the tide.
This place that I have chosen to rest
Is no longer my grave,
But yours.
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