Circus of Controlled Chaos

Everyone said, “Well, maybe it’s time for you to hang up the gloves.” And perhaps you felt that way too, as the gravel reacted against the soles of your worn shoes, and you ignited the toxins from your cigarette into the dry, algid air of the Chicago night. But fuck everyone and their goddamn ridiculous expectations. Another day goes by, so fulfilling, yet hectic, and your mind is racing a thousand miles a minute. You lock yourself up again, prepared to face the flowing thoughts and put them onto something more tangible, and coherent. Something real. Another antisocial evening. Another night of psychological bleeding, and hand cramping. But for what? To prove them all wrong, that’s what. To flip them the finger in their frigorific glares and fucking mean it. And it’s not about exposure, or the fame,

it’s about the moment you step outside of yourself, to watch yourself commit to the act of your art and think, “This is what i’m living for.” You’ll take those gloves to the grave.