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.