Everyday just seems like a battlefield--
A one-sided war that I can only hope to conquer
Nothing about it seems remotely fair
Yet I was never given a voice for them to hear

> i need you <

I brandish my rusted sword
I ready my porcelain shield
Both so comically breakable
Much like the fragments of my shattered will

> please take me away <

My lips quiver with fearful anticipation
My eye lids shut in hopeful surrender
I tighten my grip and let out a shallow breath

> anywhere but here <

This is it--
    this is my impending death
Were there really--
    no other options left for me to take?
Or was I just too busy--
    wallowing in an ocean of my own mistakes?

> save me <

I wasn't ready--
        I never was.

< please >

But I'll try--
        just like how I always do.

Not even all the love in the world could stitch you back together the very same way again. I know that now. I know.
And maybe someday he will see it that way too.
Maybe someday he will see that we are all fighting our own personal battles, and sometimes those battles don't fit well together.
Sometimes our battles put together just create a whole new war.
Sometimes those wars aren't worth putting your boots back on for.
And sometimes it's the hardest thing, taking off your armor and giving up when you've been so used to constant day to day war cries and shrapnel.
To let chaos consume you, to wait for it to pass over, is paralyzing.
But all I know is you are tired, and you are too beautiful and wild to be kept down for long.
All I know is I want you to find your calm after the storm.

He stands there in the trench
bullets flying overhead
shrapnel, shattered, lead poisoning
his chest.

Wounds unmended shine in
moonlight
day shifts into night
bleeding, pleading for the right
to stay alive.

Smell of dread and gunpowder
all around
present corpses replace past comrades
death, guts and dirt, splattered
sinking into the ground.

Yet he stands from the coffin
running like a rampant hound
with fury, glory, and a bang
a shot flew through the back of
his head.

The world's a battlefield
and he ended up on the wrong side
but stood, fought, and died
for what seemed right.

Soldiers are meant to carry
a burden on their shoulders
even if it's a boulder, the world,
or an ideal worth the cost.

And humans are defined by their
battles
even when they're lost.

Spiraling mindsets,
Shattered perceptions,
Twisted and mangled plans for the future lie all around.

Dying dreams scattered in the churned-up mud,
As a light but steady rainfall of dread cascades upon the carnage.

The accusations are steaming from where the rain hits it,
Both sides fired shots at each other so rapidly the barrels warped beyond recognition.

Rusted fields of barbed comments lie between,
Where even a knick could spell infection and disaster.

New dreams arrive to replace the old,
But are torn asunder just as quickly,
Hard truths rake their lines as they cross,
Torn asunder by those terrible things.

This place was once nice,
Full of hope,
A place of peace and happiness,
But now is lost,
To fire and steel,
As the guns finally fall silent.

Have you ever noticed the stutter in my words or the way I can’t control my paranoia? My spiteful eyes and cracked lips still forced into a smile, trying to prove everyone that I’m a fighter. No one ever bothered to hold me close, to tell me it’s okay to not be fine. So I run through my life as if it’s a battlefield, hoping that one day I can live and not just survive.

These rolling hills
A soldier's cemetery
These empty thoughts
A suicidal paradise

The enemy angrily blasts it's guns,
Carelessly littering the battlefield,
As troops slowly creep foward

The blasting of every bullet,
Sends each solider to cling tighter,
To the untruthful idea of eternity

As if they could steal a forevermore,
With a metallic grasp,
Or even theif but one more breath

But at the blood red hands,
Of the envitable enemy,
They can never win

Whether they are gunned down in an instant,
Or slowly torn apart,
The enemy will triamph

We will all join the army of the fallen.

Allow the young to grasp the hands of death,
pull the strings of their brains,
shape them into monsters
and make them endure the worst.

Create tragedy from their touch,
give them guns
and send them to war.
They are hollow,
their heartbreak written in the spilled blood.

You took their hope and exchanged it for hell,
yet still they breathe
and stand tall
as their knees quiver
from the heavy burden of the things they've done.