Day seventy, I have yet to escape from this tragedy,
fighting the catastrophe, hunger is consuming me my
body is failing, thoughts are derailing, I'm writing, fighting,
striking for this cause, tell me, what are we fighting for?
What put us in this cell hell? Tell me, I'm losing my memories.
Trying to remember these things that meant something to me,
forgetting what persuaded me to strike.
What was it, a war? What are we fighting for?
What makes me say I'll go just one more day, one less meal?
I can't even feel the hunger pains anymore,
just please explain once more what is is we're fighting for.
I've realized I shouldn't be alive
I might not last the night, might you know why
I've been living to die? I'm trying to remember once more
what it is we're fighting for. Or maybe I'll embrace
the blackest of lace that carries me to sleep. Maybe
I'll find peace, or pieces of the memories, a meaning
to this suffering. Maybe I'll find something new, or
maybe I'll remember once more what I am fighting for.
Or maybe, just possibly, it'll find me, remember me,
look down and dismember this pathetic me.
It'll see me being hungry and beaten, not having eaten
a real meal in days–my decision. It wouldn't want me
to die trying like this or die crying like this.
Or maybe I'm misinformed, what if what I'm fighting for
forgot I'm here fighting for it, here living to die for it
trying to die for it, waiting to die for it, dying to die for it.
Maybe I'll remember what I'm fighting for if I die for it.
Tomorrow I'll go for it. Go one more day, one less meal,
Seal my fate, I'm tired of waiting and debating over
what it is I'm fighting for.