Chekhov's Hangnail

I’ve never been any good at poetry
And I stumble over words from time to time
Tempted by a hangnail I once flayed my middle finger
Butchered cuticles, stain the page like wine
Count the digits. How unsuitable are mine?

When it rains, well it really fucking pours
And we made waves, but did my screaming drown out yours?
Now here we are mixing metaphors
And sometimes it might seem like we lost the battle
But if no one wins the war, then why keep score?

Everything is mediocre, I’m bored and nothing satisfies
An existential crisis mix-tape on repeat until I die
Left decomposing on the floor this routine’s awful for my posture
Looking round for something more, sure that I’d lost you

It might seem like we lost the battle but if no one wins the war
Then why keep score?