I will not go gently,
I will not go clean.
I will bleed on the page,
spit truth in machine.
This is not a battle,
it’s a blood pact signed in chemo and sweat,
with the devil watching
and the gods drunk in the alley
muttering something about hope.
They said stage four.
They said sit down.
They said hospice, comfort, soft exits.
I said screw comfort.
Give me fire.
Give me days soaked in fight
and nights laced with weed.
Let me starve this monster.
Let me rage-starve it.
With every fasted hour, every bitter pill,
with every joint lit like a fuse
I will burn down its walls.
I’m not a warrior.
I’m a fucking storm
that forgot how to stop spinning.
I don’t pray for miracles
I load the chamber,
kiss the trigger,
and dare fate to blink.
When it comes,
let them find me upright,
ink on my fingers,
sweat in my eyes,
a poem unfinished,
a breath still snarling.
This isn’t survival.
This is defiance.
This is art.
This is life
unfiltered
to the last fucking breath.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
