To A Fighter

You.

Always ready to fight
with those clinched fist,
trying to impress someone
who might care and attack.

I stopped fighting
A long time ago
And it hurt my hands so much less
When finally I decided to let go.

Why punch when you could hold.
Why yell when you should whisper.
Why try to tear apart
When putting together is so much quicker...

You.

Addicticted to the bruises
And the way they paint your face;
Such pretty purples and greens
On top of pale blues and near blacks.

I stopped fighting
When I knew you began
And I became an example for you
To follow or understand.

Why did I stop if I was like you.
Why try when I can only fail.
Why expose the right way
When I know your fists are clinched:

Because I don't want to see you hurt.
And that, my friend, is it.