The poem
This year keeps swinging
like it's got a point to prove,
Every time I find my feet,
life knocks me off the fucking groove.
No bastard to blame,
no face I can scream at,
Just fate throwing bricks while I'm asking,
"What the fuck was that?"
I'm angry at everything
and nothing all at once,
Sick of taking hit after hit
like some cosmic fucking punch.
So if life wants a fight, fine
- I'm still fucking here,
Bruised, pissed off, and dragging
myself through this bastard year.
The design
Comfort Colors® 1717, with the Editorial design printed on the front.