The Punch

The hurt on my knuckle doesn’t seem to surpass my heart pain. It trembles in red, not as bright as the lighted cigarette, but swollen enough to halt movement. A sportsman with injuries is deem as worthless. Since years ago, nothing ever stimulated self destruction anymore when maturity took over. Now that every bit of calmness has dispersed; in sorrow, in disappointment, I conclude defeat. What’s worst is the joke that nobody knows or believes.

.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *