The fight goes on

The fight goes on.

It is hurtful to hurt, and the fight goes on.  I walk with a guilt that I caught with my teeth. I am clenched.  I swallow the gruel of conscience, but the fight goes on.

The fight goes on.

Generosity is as foolish as a room of white elephants.  A golden inconvenience.  The fight goes on.

They call us freaks!  The radicals! The rebels!  The…ooh, what’s the word…the polemics!  Who’s being ridiculous now you goddamn wimps!

I turn to the sky with my arms outstretched.  I cry dissatisfaction!   I cry anxiety!  When I am losing, I want to fight some more.  Give it to me!  Throw me your best shot!

The fight goes on.

Sometimes, I want to give up.  I don’t want to wake up in the morning.  And if I do wake up, I don’t want to get out of bed.  My eyes are so restless during the day.  I get eyestrain.  Maybe, I get tired of looking except at Kaye. For everything else, I am forced to look on.

(My dear Kaye, you are the most pleasant thing I see and I wish you were in front of me in every single blink.  Mornings are hard for me, you know this.  And so you must understand why I never want to leave.  I still don’t know how you manage to believe in me so much when I am so good at failing.  You egg me to fight.)

On and on.