Every Day Ends

Pills mark the exit. Today ends like the others: television I don't need to watch, unpleasant urges to write and the words that go with them, silence in the air that won't reach my ears, and the exit. Recommend submission all you want; it won't happen. I lived under boots and smiled too damn long. Compromise always came too easily to my youth; I'm capable of anything. I'm torn between the exit and something more permanent. Hope or mercy, help me choose. I'm a fighter with broken knuckles, and a lover with a lie for a heart. Give me an inch; I love to take miles. When I was in eighth grade, I helped my teammates make weight for club league junior high football. I ran slowly, but eventually I caught them all. One by one, they fell to the side. I don't know how many laps I ran, but no one on my team ran more. Training injuries stopped all that, though. My psychosis came on their heels. Now, I don't feel the burn in my knees. I have my knuckles (broken), my urges (pointless), my tormentors support me (I need them), and a handful of pills to make the rest of you feel like something can be done. That's my exit.