Not an ounce of me is real. Not an ounce of me is real. Yet I’m filled up to the brim of a cup made out of steel. I cannot feel if the contents dribble through. I am numb. I’ve succumbed to a world that holds no truth. I’m stealing all the earth and all the remnants of what I once thought pure. And there is one thing I am certain of: the fact that I’m not sure. Not an ounce of me is just. All my metals turn to rust. I take the field. But no one is standing at the plate. There are no tickets at the gate. As is my fate. None of it was fair. Catching glances and catching air. Passing chances and passing blame. I left my helmet in the cage. I kicked the privilege and my rage. It’s all a game. It’s all a stage.