Addictionaly Combatant

I picked myself off the floor and stood up once again.
Most people go though a quick conscious check-up to see if there is any damage of memory,
Like 'who am I, where am I, what am I doing here, why am I doing this?'     
As if waking up from a dream, filled with doubt about what is real and is still the dream.
But I knew what was going on.
I knew what I was doing.
It's an addiction.
And I can't stop.

It's not like smoking, alcohol, or other drugs.
Growing up is all about getting hurt and then getting over it.  
You hurt.  You recover.  You move on.  
Each time you come out of it a little stronger.  
But this pain is like a blazing hot reminder that I'm still alive.
And It smelled like blood.  
It's an addiction.
And I won't stop.

For love will people mutilate themselves and murder rivals.  
But what of those other people, who have no love.
You better stop assuming the pain you feel is anything unique or special.  
Well, I doubt just telling you that will do any good.  
So why not just keep coming at me?  Maybe getting your ass kicked will do you some good.  
I know it helped me.
It's an addiction.
And I will never stop.