prose

balls

The person in the mirror, made-up, polished, primped, and preened, is a fraud. That person doesn’t even exist.

We are the mud beneath our fingernails, we are the grave from which we’ve crawled in defiance, we are what we have fought, clawing, to achieve.

We are the blood on our split knuckles, we are the battles we’ve survived, we are the principles we dare defend, we are the people for whom we would die fighting; we are the sum of the love we have given.

That person in the mirror, the imposter, the pretender, hasn’t the balls for this sort of thing.

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Eric

I've come to write.

9 thoughts on “balls”

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