I wake up,
To my surprise, I still breathe.
Truly a stump,
That I did not die.
For when I sleep,
I am short of breath.
A slumber so deep,
It is a brush with death.
Swept into its void,
Begging me to never awake.
To never return to my world destroyed,
And be left forsook.

Here I am lifted from the fog,
That is my sorrow.
An ever growing clog,
Filled with the constant echo.

Of my dying soul,
Penetrated by the ammunition.
Of the demons in the hellhole,
That is my reality now broken.
Shattered into glass,
That impales my skin.
A great agony nothing can surpass.

The blood runs through my pen,
As I write my impending doom,
If only my eyes could be sewn shut,
So I may no longer awake to this gloom.

And be forever wrapped in this net,
Where I may be set free,
No longer a prisoner of wretched deeds.