Never Fight

Standing weak in the field of fists,
trying to crawl with broken wrists,
never getting anywhere like this,
trying to move but they never miss,
hitting hard and sometimes not so much,
only wanting once for a sympathetic touch,
a helping hand among them clenched tight,
all of which want to taunt and fight,
pushing forth and being pulled back,
the onslaught of pain from consistent attack,
taking it as trying to return it would only fail,
the sickness injects deeper into the skin of pale,
drawing out the strength once in the muscled meat,
with the last moment of deciding to admit defeat.