Victory Is Overrated
They call it a race,
but it feels more like a circus—
tightropes stretched over flames,
clowns tripping over their own pride,
while I, in my worn sneakers,
stroll past their delicate egos.
Let them shout.
Their speed is a gunshot—
all noise, no aim.
I’ve got the calm of a bassline,
the steady rhythm of knowing
that slow doesn’t mean weak.
Victory? It’s a cheap bottle of wine
that tastes the same no matter who pours it.
I don’t need their finish line;
I’ve created my own,
from half-burned regrets
and the bricks they threw.
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