this is my life log — scarred pages, unpaid dues,
parents split the map, left me reading different news.
mma gloves on the shelf where my anger used to live,
quit the fights for a minute, but the ghosts don't give.
one phone call at midnight and the world lost its frame,
gym lights hum like hospital beeps — everything's the same.
mom's face in pixel glow, coughing in a borrowed bed,
i learned to hold the weight, learned to hold it for the rest.
heartbeat on the metronome, breaths count in the dark,
i lace up, i grind, try to out-run the mark.
punches taught me rhythm, but they never taught me how
to fold when the roof caves in and no one's answering now.
solid as a rock, i stand — shoulders take the load,
older brother, household anchor, walking down the road.
i give until my pockets empty, keep the storms from the door,
i smile for everyone else, then lie awake on the floor.
sweat on the bag, shadow-boxing with a calendar of loss,
crosses for the days i missed — fights that came with a cost.
my hands used to craft victory, now they cup a tired cup,
gym mirror holds a stranger who still keeps getting up.
i trade a punch for patience, but patience keeps getting bruised,
started smoking to hush the static, drinking to mute the news.
smoke dims the siren, bottle makes the echoes light —
short fix, hard hit: blackout the pain for the night.
808 heartbeat, piano thin like a held breath,
every rep a promise whispered under fluorescent death.
i push until my ribs protest, counting seconds like a sum,
but being strong ain't a condition — sometimes it wants to come undone.
solid as a rock, but my hands keep crumblin',
i brace the house while the inside keeps tumblin'.
i answer every knock, fix every broken seam,
i've been the steady river — now the river's got a seam.
i hold the oxygen for others while i barely breathe,
carry crowns on a crooked neck, crown that no one sees.
memory hits — mom humming low, cracked vinyl on the floor,
she said, "boy, you don't have to carry every war."
so i stand in the dark and let the armor rust away,
admit my throat is heavy, let the words find a way.
i call the name i fear, not for strength but for a hand,
asking once for mercy, learning how to let someone stand.
solid as a rock — not unbreakable, just learning to mend,
i keep my shoulders for the family, but i reach for help again.
i'll be the anchor that knows when to drop the weight and breathe,
solid as a rock, but i'm human underneath.
gym lights hum like hospital beeps — i keep time with that sound,
i smoke and drink the numbness but i plan to put them down.
life moved in a blink, but i'm rewriting the frame,
solid as a rock, learning how to call a name.
midnight calls, cracked rugs, and hospital linings cold,
i stand, i break, i ask — this story won't be sold.
i am older brother, caretaker
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