Ten in my shoes

You wouldn't last ten in my shoes,
no heartbeat, no breath, not a single bruise,

would trade for the scars carved deep in my mind—

they’re the roadmap of rage that I’ve left behind.

I’ve been to hell and clawed my way through,

with nothing but bones and bloodied sinew,

the fire ate pieces of me like prey,

yet somehow I’m here, breathing today.

The demons I’ve danced with, the dark I’ve survived,

in shadows I’ve lived, but emerged alive.

I’ve lost things that break, I’ve broken for less,

and fought with a fury that fear can't confess.

This isn’t just leather; these soles have seen flames,

they’ve trekked through the wreckage of loss with no name.

Step after step through a war you can't trace—

I wear every bruise like a badge, just in case.

So, try slipping these on, lacing up my past,

feel the weight of each echo that’s held in the cast,

for ten? You'd be lucky to stand through one night,

in shoes made of thunder, in souls forged from fight.

I walk with the weight of a thousand old wars,

with fire-stained laces and blood in the pores.

You wouldn’t last ten in my skin, in my bones,

for hell’s where I’m tempered, and I walk there alone.