searching for some odd sort of solace
and yet again,
i find myself writing words i don't really mean
to people i don't really know
about topics i've not really researched
all in the name: poem
this is not my war

it's like i'm standing naked on the front lines
all weariness and flesh
melancholic in my voice,
"take arms, and fight."
this was never my battle, but it rages in my mind
and my troops aren't gathering
my hands, too weak to hold up my blade
my pen
this is not my war

so, once again,
it's dark and i'm finding ways to poetically knife myself
without the blood and romance staining my bed sheets
and marking cryptic patterns on my wall
in hopes that my fellow aesthetes
will find them pleasing when i post them
this is not my war

and honestly,
i've never found anything beautiful about sunsets
because the dying of another day
didn't make me feel like stardust
but more like a handprint on a wall
being threatened with fresh paint
this is not my war

i'm not ready
this is not my war