"It has been a beautiful fight.
it still is"
Henry Charles Bukowski.
I wear my bruises with pride
my cuts with some glory
and my suits with little grace.
I wear all my bruises with pride.
All of them.
Specially this one,
the one that's far away and filled with candy
and this small one by my ribcage.
I hide my cuts from the sun
and hide my wrinkles from the rest,
all of this dead end roads are being born near my eyes
near my pain. Near this pain.
I show my bruises around like any other old man,
proud and scared, waiting for a day of rest.
My body keeps going on strike
and I only ask for another night, another bottle,
just another one of those nights filled with drunken smiles
good music and a stupid argument.
I will wear my bruises with style
in front of red lights
in front of lonely children
in front of the smelly streets that I miss so much
in front of your doorstep
and maybe in front of la 303 that heals me at times.
I wear my bruises with pride, woman.
I have no choice.
Non I tell ya.