a freestyle sonnet about being born to lose

As a natural born loser, I know the deal 
don't always be coming from above the table, 
so you gotta balance your math with what you feel 
at intuitive level, while still unable 

to control the game. Ain't no shame in being born 
without wealth or fame, struggling to simply survive 
the hand dealt with a next day's ante not yet torn 
from our worn out pockets. But, to remain alive, 

talking shit to the dealer is a type of win, 
unapologetic in our born skin - well-scarred, 
scuffed, with ink-stained testaments to a life of sin. 
"If they sleeping on you, tuck 'em in," disregard 

for the approval odds of them fine folks gold seal; 
my human roots ain't ragged but raw, rugged, real.