Golden Gloves

A new year has dawned,
renewing hope that surprises my heart.
After all this time, passing by,
and all those hurts, digging deeply.
I am awed at the survivalist,
the natural born punching bag.
Kicked and bleeding – scarred,
learned to be a fighter.
Hoping.
Still.

A new year has dawned,
with all its’ promises and dreams.
The fears grow within, endlessly,
the gooey blackness feeds, voraciously.
They try to consume it,
but no longer a cook.
Ordering some take-away, starving,
disallowing a frenzy.
Eating.
Alone.

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