DON’T TALK ABOUT IT

Soap burns… mind turns…

Knuckles crack when the real world yearns.

Basement breath, concrete sweat,

Tyler in the corner like a shadow silhouette…

⸻

I’m the glitch in the frame when the daylight drops,

Corporate drone by day, night-time breaking clocks.

I got insomnia venom in a chemical bloom,

Lye hissing on my skin like a prophecy of doom.

You can hear the pipes drip while the furnace moans,

Every punch is a prayer for the overthrown.

We built pain into scripture, fight-stains on the floor,

And the bruise on my cheek feels like something worth more.

Left jab—right snap—mind crack—time lapse,

Every single hit another truth unwraps.

Break straps—burn maps—tear down false traps,

Underground sermon where the lost collapse.

Identity shredded like a leaflet page,

Tyler Durden in my ear saying, “Uncage rage.”

I’m a heartbeat split into two wrong names,

One sane, one flame, both playing the same game.

⸻

First rule: You don’t talk about it!

Second rule: You don’t talk about it!

Third rule: If they tap out, blackout, crash to the ground—

You stop the fight and clear the crowd.

Fourth rule: Only two in the circle tonight.

Fifth rule: One fight at a time, keep the chaos tight.

Sixth rule: Shirts off—boots tied—no lies inside.

Seventh: Go hard till the weak divide.

Eighth rule: If this your first night in the blood-lit club…

You. Must. Fight.

⸻

I don’t need no crown, no gold, no throne,

Just a basement full of echoes and a jaw half-blown.

Pain cures fear, and fear births truth,

And truth leaves bruises in the shape of youth.

Marla skulking through smoke like a phantom sin,

Sharp tongue, black lipstick, chaos on skin.

She’s the match to the gasoline in my grin,

Another piece of the fractal breaking within.

Detonate—

I ventilate the ego you fabricate,

I suffocate the world you imitate,

Recreate, then devastate,

And Tyler narrates while realities separate.

Project Mayhem marching like a ghost brigade,

Papered lives going up in the flames they made.

Identity gone, expectations fade,

We’re the misfit sons that the world betrayed.

Concrete hymns sung with bloodshot eyes,

We’re the fists that rise when the dreamworld dies.

Every punch is a line we underline,

Every scar is a truth they can’t confine.

⸻

First rule: You don’t talk about it!

Second rule: You don’t talk about it!

Third: If he goes limp, you don’t drag it out—

This ain’t a sport, it’s a ritual bout.

Eighth rule: If it’s your first night here tonight…

You fight.

Now swing at the void with all your might.

⸻

You’re not your job…

You’re not your name…

You’re the bruise that proves

You finally woke up.