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Vicki Kralapp Aug 2013
Love is a war; a battlefield
looking for something real
in this world strewn with
shattered dreams.

Bombs and grenades blow holes
in innocent victims and
leave them to their pain
and despair.

I wait for my knight on horseback
to spare me.
I can hear the heavy hoofs and breathing of horses
as my army comes to stay the enemy of distrust.

My heart skips a beat
as I can almost feel salvation.
Holding my breath I wait for that which holds
my heart captive, to be slain.

Then you are here,along with
hope, joy, and freedom, your faithful companions,
to fill my heart and replace the blood
that has been spilt, with trust once again.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Battle scars, of where I've been.
How do you fix a childhood, this frightening?
A first **** that gave you breath, a reason to sing,
So you found another, a first true lover, and you picked up the pen.
An emotionally abusive mother, who has terrified all of your friends.
One that's massacred all your brothers heads.
And many screws are loose in my head.
How can I tighten them?
Batten down the hatches?
Open up to the wind and the masses?
Hoping someone could understand,
Maybe they'll have a proper screwdriver on hand.
But such is rare.
With not many hands on hand
noren Mar 19
A damaged soul
needs time to heal and get up.
But it is often mistaken for a slain soldier
that lies in the gory battlefield
and trampled upon.

It's defeated, but it doesn't die
It remembers every feet that trod on it
But finds power in the struggle to overcome
the pain of being mistaken - deep within  
It fights another battle which it can't fail to win.
Eric Pon Mar 15
When destined to fight the Dragon

wisdom leads us to its layer, Before;

Before it can reach our home.
Noelis Oct 2018
burns and cuts cover my skin
i might as well call it a battlefield
where many times i lost war against myself
which hurt my heart immensely.

people who know my story often ask me
why i did what i did
i guess it hurts less not focusing on the pain others caused you but on the one you caused yourself.

so please don’t ask me again why i did what i did
because each day it’s harder to resist.
Ash Wilhelm Aug 2018
My mind is at war with my actions
Running and running
Dodging mines at every turn desperately trying to keep you happy knowing that one wrong step I will explode into tiny bits and pieces,
amounting to nothing as I once did
My heavy boots I pick up with every step I take knowing when I get to you I will regain your trust for the evening
Shooting me down each night in every ***** of my body with your hateful words knowing that your country will win the war in my head and I will forever lose
Falling asleep each night with fear that someone else could take my place
Knowing that your ego could fill the entire desert
My blood pours out of my body as my words do on the page describing what **** I am experiencing being under your command and how I desperately need out

But you cannot just simply
leave the war.
Daisy Marrow May 2014
Lay down your burden.
Lay down your arms.
Hardship is over and all is numb.
You finally get to rest.
You finally get to let go.
Fall down in the snow and let nature take you.
You are not alone, never.
Thousands of bodies are scattered on the battlefield.
They all had lives.
They all had futures.
They all ended too soon.
Go ahead and turn the snow strawberry red.
Your song will be played.
Your name will live on.
We will remember you forever more.
So rest now, my soldier.
Your brothers shall bring the peace.
2014
Amyrah Apr 5
If being in pain is scary,
Someone, Seeing what is going through your head is worse.
A senate house'd be better
Afterall, these are just regular battles between your brain and heart.
ThePoet Dec 2015
I try to protect your
heart from what I never
could endure or take,
I try to fix your mess
while I make the
same repeated mistake,
I try to fight your wars
but can't stand on
my own battlefield......

because I could never
protect myself, and instead I
became a human shield.

© Sarah Ahmed (ThePoet)
Lawrence Hall Apr 13
A mist, but not of memories or ghosts,
And not a silent mist - a noisy one
Drifts darkly over this altar to the past
The docent pauses for each motor home

Gear-growling up the unexpected *****
Along the road from that point to this one
Well-paved and posted: fifteen miles per hour

For cell-‘phone shots where each historic death
Is marked with stones among the sunlit grass
The docent speaks of her peoples: Cheyenne,
Arapaho, Sioux, and soldier boys blue

With frequent and reflective pauses as
A Winnebago circles Last Stand Hill
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
.
Ancient games
tell tales of dust.  |||   A story drawn
from the lips of two poets.



~~~~~


It's the wits that ****, not Queens of ivory or ink. *
Charged with
coal strokes, scraping up the lies.
Pawns & Knights slip between the grasp of the sun, leaking into
   lion jaws of Leo.
Shifting these granite plates, ignoring the Rooks common price of aslant.
Here we have slain kin, crescent traitors that backstab the night and battlefield.
Closed doors and trap floors, trade me a tie, swindling your tactic ruts.
Reality never got the noose around our necks, check turned into manslaughter, and kingdoms ripped asunder by the roar of Jupiter
Get up, get up, get away from these liars, they can't have your rank or your fire.
Peak a notion, this match is spared by a luft.
Toss away the pride buried 'neath your dusty skin, it don't matter no more if   death has you by the lips.
Silence is a language too in our eyes of earth.
Take my hand, knott your soul into this downfall, and brace yourself for the wreckage in our bones.
The Sword of Sorrows will fall 'pon your shoulders, not to slay thee, but to dub thee a new day.
The drums of war will knit the lyrics in the sky,
singing:
"The mighty sharpen their fangs, the weak sharpen their wisdom"
~~~~~
I'm tired of your wishbones, and golden scales, give me the hard-earned truth.
Hot coals of honesty may you tread upon, shadow-bitten remorseful may you be, don't stray off the course of Ursa major.
The North star isn't the one I follow
It's the moon with all of it's phases,
Eclipsing and crescent, tipping the sky with it's beauty.
Now let this sink further than any soul has ever sunk,
no man could ever
rule the moon.
~~~~~~
Shoot on command,
C
h    
      e
c  
      k
m
a
t      
e

~~~~
You could drag me to **** and back and those words wouldn't mean anything.
Let this downfall become a *downfell,

Because last I checked
"Wolves worship the moon"
and I have broke it's reflection in the water
Just
by
throwing
s                    
t          
o
         n
                 e
                              s
                               ­        .

.
A collab between
The Dragon Prince & Skaidrum.

I'll give most credit to
Kalum here.

© Copywrite The Dragon Prince & Skaidrum
Healer Oct 2018
Yesterday which seems so far away
brought a new glowing dawn, a new day, opening a new path, new ways
Blessing every tired child with new energy to play
Every blind to see, mute to say
past is gone but let's love this gift of the present
do not delay cause life has a bad habit of taking everything away
If you are fortunate than me then in this journey called life
you'll be stabbed and betrayed
if you don't love yourself but want others to pray
here's harsh slap on your face that no one will ever want to stay
Everyone wants others love but no one will give their's to spray
This life of your's is more of a living on a battlefield
every day will bring new war lined up in arrays
ready to ****, to defeat
ready to send you on your knees
This life is your's to live
yours from society's chain to free
take charge of it else not only for you
but also for other's your life will become a misfit
Skaidrum Oct 2015
...
I've got a few visitors tonight;
they're all associated with the wolf under my eyes

I.
I've left loneliness to starve on a stone table,
while jealousy can bleed me a lake;
fear and I are equals,
on the battlefield of fate.

"Pay no mind to the rebel."
II.
Forked tongues recite wickedness; of all
the shadows gaining power as the sun was slain.
Black flames banish all that is golden,
as darkness bent my silent skeleton;
but it didn't break.

"I'm just some sin you committed...right?"
III.
A basilisk waited for me at my chambers,
it requested a lullaby, and a glass of iron wine.
Who knew poison would be my new best friend?
Who knew my company would be kept by
an oracle of silver'tongue?
Dead languages clutched my
lively secrets.

"Every wolf gets tired of the moon at some point."
IV.
And just like that;
We were splintering at your wolfsong
auburn poems at the feet of trees
waist deep in misery you sat,
head crowned in autumn's diseases.
Witnessing you tilt your head to plant a kiss
on the night's wings;

"Oh, it's ******* agony."
Watching your eyes harvest hurricanes
love sinking in tongues
of ebony sorrow.
they don't belong to me
you don't belong to me.

"I suppose I can't change the world
but I will leave it colder."

V.

And sometimes, love is just the aftermath
of a tragedy.

...
I deserve to suffer over you, Lycan.
I always have deserved it,
this is my curse.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Kj Dec 2015
I am standing alone,
In a too-crowded room,
Between a fellow ex,
And your newest fad,
Finally I realize,
I am just another name on a list-
You never loved me,
I was just another conquest-
Nothing more than an insignificant battle
In the war of your life.
* But the battlefield has since become my burial ground.
Mara W Kayh Jan 21
My life is a virtual battlefield
complete with hidden traps,
layered atop cowardly assaults

between highly guarded spans of peace,
Inside my house
chairs and walls
are coarsely blown to bits
by verbal bombs,
and stark fists of shrapnel.

Behind that simple smile,
semblance of solid love
so easily shaken,
lies a ripened mine field

I tread on tiptoes
yet it erupts under
calloused feet unprovoked,
blasting color to grey
as sacred sanctuary
falls to scarred terrain.

Spears lodged inside ribs
I peel myself from the ground,
shake off soot,
wait for dust to settle
before I march forward, again.

yes I lose the battles
But I will win this war.
Reminded me of the song by Pat Benatar, "love is a battlefield"
But again, hate seeps in as well.
Umi Feb 2018
What might it be, that lets some just not give up when there is
absolutely no reason to continue fighting any longer ?
As I question this to myself, in a room filled with candle light,
I realise that it might be an ember of hope, of determination,
courage and the imagination to win what lets them carry through.
In this weaving melody of thoughts, breath flowing uninterrupted
I want to lose myself in this wandering fragrance just for this,
endless seeming, moment of unimaginable emotions.
As then I remember the countless times I had lift myself up,
Was it that I had abandoned hope until now or was it that my
means had become pointless so I decided to give up and let this
internal, inferno which let myself rise from the fires of the battlefield
go out and turn into an dying ember, flickering in it's last moments.


Yet I have come to understand what it really meant:


The emptiness you’ve carried and lost is but nothing!
Desiring the grand beauty of the heavens far above
From here we may never look up nor ever return!
This world shall not take even half of our spirits!


And so I rise from the fire once more, after having burned, been consumed and fed by it for such a long lasting while.
Because I wish to protect you, all I desire is to protect you.
Thus I return into the battlefield from which I have fallen.
To shine once again, illuminating your days so you may smile.


~ Umi
Zineb Oct 2016
War is tragic at best. We send our children off to die by the hands of another. Compensation will never be a child yet we will take it anyways. Proud we should be to win the war in the end. The battle may have been won but our child will be forever lost. Even when our children do come back they are still lost somewhere in the wreckage of a battlefield on lands that our feet will never touch. Liberated is the land yet our children have taken the fall and are forever captured in a life where there is no liberation.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
T'was like a never-ending siren.
Wirh trauma engraved minds
blood on their hands
came bravery
in each man's heart and soul.
The battlefields were their cage;
they got themselves in
but couldn't get out.
Snowflakes sprinkled down from the sky like fallen men,
while the soldiers waited like sitting ducks,
before coming face to face with death again.

Still. Still. Still.
Without the squealing bombs
and earth shattering shells
all seemed to be oddly still.
For the first time in forever
almost as if they were frozen in time.
You could feel the silence
that hung over that wasteland
on the very night
of December 24th, 1914.

Tension, curiosity and confusion
wafted through the British trenches like incense.
and those three feelings
were the only things that loomed in the sky
until an all too familiar tune filled the night...
Sweet, muffled melodys filled the air
as a German silent night
was being sung everywhere.

Tranquillity took over each soldiers heart as they realised in that moment
it was Christmas days start.
Though they longed for their families
something felt true
as German symphonys whispered
through the cold nights gloom.

And soon,
the Englishmen had all joined in-
sounding somewhat like a broken choir- but to them
it was amazing.
An astonishing moment when
something felt right
and something felt fair
and that was the hope
they needed to share.

Voices. Voices. Voices.
Bouncing off the walls of each trench
of both German and Englishmen
from both sides of the fence.
The song 'silent night'
hung in the breeze
just like twinkling lights
laced around a Christmas tree.

Loud melodic Voices,
Flooded through the battlefield.
Soldiers grinning from ear to ear
while their hearts sung wonders.
But little were they sure
that singing wouldn't be the only alien sound they heard
that Christmas day or more.

Footsteps. Footsteps. Footsteps.
Feet crunching on the crisp leaves!
Englishmen were cautiously fumbling to see out of their trench
only to find Germans
wearily emerging from their wire...

In that moment
every weapon was lowered
and suddenly
possible peace approached. 
Soldiers then
from both sides of war
came out from their place of stay
and were civil
for what Christmas they saw.

As dawn broke
Christmas day approached
hands were shook
smiles were shared
and a glimmer of hope
flew around in the air.
Football, cards, carols and more:
christmas bought them all together
as snow fell heavy on the floor.

Loyalties didn't count for that day,
however all those hours after
once that first bomb went off in the distance,
It was like an alarm.

The alarm going off and saying
"Wake up! Wake up from this dream,
and go back to harsh reality".
And it was safe to say,
that not one of those men wanted to wake up.
But it was not an alarm-
as much as it sent the same message-
It was a warning instead.
A warning that they had to go back to their duties right away.

Smiles, frowns,
and sad looks all around.
Frohe Weihnatchen!
Merry Christmas! 
And all went back to their grounds.

A Christmas spirit was spread that night,
which might have been enough, 
to save a mans life.

Back to work,
it was war again,
but they never forgot,
they made a friend.
Whatever the rules,
they knew it felt right.

Silent night.
Silent night.
Silent night.
A peice on the Christmas truce in ww1. May we remember those who lost their lives as we read this, and may they all remain in peice, with pride.
the art of poetry
    like any art
produces better work
when writers are not only
erudite but also smart

the lovers' painful state
upon loss or desertion
is voiced much more impressively
with less dramatic flourish
and more of the grate
that finishes the sword
at the old blacksmith's fire
where the hot flame of our desire
    thrown into water
with a defiant hiss
turns into deadly steel
ready to **** and ******
     friend or foe or lover
in our desperate search
     for exits from the mire

or take the unexpected loss
    of victory that seemed so close
    on a wild battlefield
when suddenly the hero's gallant steed
    falls victim to a hostile archers shot
and its proud rider is reduced to shout
"A kingdom for a horse!"
rather than holding a long monologue
    about the treachery of fate

in  short
less is oft' more
and lets the readers fill the empty spaces
with their own images and graces
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
I am not the master of my writing

-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Bella Aug 2018
I'm doing so good
so good
but I know it's just distractions
and what happens when the distractions run out
at what point is getting rid of the bad
by ignoring the bad
a bad thing?

I mean,
it seems good
until you think about it
and I think about it
it's all still there
I just kept tip toeing around triggers in the battlefield of my own mind
and I can't just do nothing
and I can't be alone in the dark

because then I'm not better anymore
and all of that hard work of ignoring and ignoring and distracting and ignoring just crumbles
it all goes to ****
and I'm left sobbing desperately so desperately

so tell me
which is better
being depressed all the time
or distracting myself from my own depression
tiptoeing around my own thoughts and dying a little every time I step on a creaky board

which one is better
Umi Mar 2018
Cutting through the darkness with a blade burning in an ominous yet in scarlet reddish tone, roaring as if it had the strengh of thunder.
The wielder in pure fury, swinging, swaying it around to pierce through the sinning gaze of the inhabitants of that place.
It is a true blade of banishment, viscious, without mercy or kindness,
raging evermore in an unending, continous rampage, gaining stengh.
Of course, one wouldn't expect any mercy but purgatory on this cruel and also blood drenched battlefield in which only sorrow is reaped.
But whereabouts of the heart already have been burnt away,
As the warped moon embraces the shadows of the fools,
The end had been brought near on that day which mortals fear,
Heat being spread with each slash, likely to set the soil ablaze,
Thus is the strengh of a sword which holds in a world of nightmares, likely to never desired to be ever seen before


~ Umi
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