Just another morning,
just another day.
Drag myself to the sink,
splash some water on my face.

Sometimes I look down,
at my trembling hands.
I want to wash them clean,
but I can't.
The stains are too deep,
skin like sand.

I work in a cubicle,
nine to five every week.
I come home to a wife and kids,
who don't understand me.

And every single night,
right before I go to bed,
I pray that these demons,
will leave my head.
Somethings that I've done,
are better left dead.

I feel the knife inside me,
twisting and digging in.
It's serrated edges tearing,
at the flesh and skin.

I feel the bullets sinking,
into my broken heart.
Sometimes it's easier,
to just hit restart.
I wish this world would realize,
war is hard.

I wish this world would realize,
war is hard,
on a heart,
now torn apart.