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The gun goes off, and so do I.

My options are simple; win the race or die.

Any incentive I need is answered with a glance to the sky.

The adrenaline pumps as a flock of winged feet fly.

My face shows an uncomfortable grimace,

an indicator of the physical.

Nobody sees the scars all over

from all the stress on my brain.

But the race ain’t for me; it’s for my flesh and blood,

My, city, my people, my love fuels this emotional flood.

I break the tape and move on, what more is there to say.

I survive and advance to race another day.

by Blake Brancato

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This article was written by an individual or organization that is not part of The Vector. The name of the individual/organization that wrote this article is at the bottom of the article.

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