a split lip awakens and remembers

bare knuckle deep into the

wastewater of past haunts

evoking that fond, sick memory

of the fanciful martyr, someone

that someone accidentally

took notice of in a lifetime

of imagining the hero, though

always the victim, a pale reflection

an always almost but never quite

there, a myriad of self-fulfilling

self-indulged never self-reflecting

never enough yet somehow more than

tirelessly spitting into the wind as if

it’s really necessary to remind oneself

of the failures that dot the smug

lifeless determination that despite

the beatings knows nothing other

than to persist in spite of itself