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it starts with the grind,
endless hours, sweat on the controller,
you're alone, screaming at the screen
the beer cans piling up,
each goal a punch in the gut
or a fleeting taste of heaven.
you hit the field with wild eyes,
your teammates, faceless strangers,
sometimes gods, more often devils.
you pass, you miss, you curse the lag
and wonder if it's worth the pain,
the midnight anguish for a game
that eats your soul and spits it out.
platinum hangs like a cruel mistress,
just out of reach, taunting,
you clutch at dreams,
knowing the truth:
you're no pro, just a man
with too much time and a broken heart.
but there are moments
when the stars align,
you feel the flow,
become the ball,
a symphony of chaos
and then—victory,
platinum, at last.
and you sit back,
savoring the win,
knowing tomorrow,
you'll be right back at it,
fighting the same fight,
a poet in a wasteland,
seeking meaning in the madness.