Flying Toads
you walk through this life like it’s a rigged game, streets full of potholes and broken promises, but you keep moving. each day’s a gamble, a shot of whiskey in a dirty glass, and yeah, you’re down a few bucks, maybe down a few more dreams too, but there’s a crackling spark deep inside you, just enough to keep you from folding. they’ll laugh, the bastards with their shiny shoes and polished lies, they always do, but you’ve seen the bottom of the bottle, and you’ve stared down worse things than a sneer from a suit. you’ll get up, not with some grand, dramatic flourish, but with quiet, stubborn rage. because when it’s all over, you’ll still be here, scarred, tired, but still here. still standing, while the rest crumble under the weight of their bullshit smiles.