No Place for the Weary

I rolled them 7’s

with nothing to lose,

the table cold,

the night mean,

and luck looking at me sideways

like it knew exactly who I was.

This ain’t no place

for the weary kind —

not for hearts that bruise easy,

not for hands that shake

when the stakes get high.

Out here, pain is currency,

and everyone’s broke

before the first drink hits the glass.

I’ve gambled with ghosts,

traded my future for a flicker,

dared the darkness

to take its best shot.

And every time,

the world leans in close

and whispers through its teeth,

you sure you’re built for this?

But I keep rolling,

keep breathing through the smoke,

keep standing in rooms

that were never meant to soften for me.

Because somewhere in the rubble

of all I’ve survived,

there’s a fire that won’t burn out,

a stubbornness that refuses

to bow to the night.

I rolled them 7’s

with nothing to lose —

and maybe that’s the trick of it:

when the world wants you broken,

staying on your feet

is the boldest bet you’ll ever make.