Battlegrounds

My internal batteries have little juice left.
I have way too far to go yet.
I’ll push till I drop.
Licking my emotional wounds clean at night.
Come morning,
On with the warrior boots,
******* my mental boxing gloves,
Feeling the weight of my emotional bulletproof vest.
There was an important battle to be won.
There were mountains to be climbed.
Knock outs to be served.
My opponants were heavy weight champions,
Wise to the game.
Heart wrenching bullets had to be dodged.
Mental dissection was their specialty.
Which scar shall we open today?
So nany to choose from,
How bout the one that’s still oozing,
Dripping with painful misery.
Give me all you got,
You won't conquer me.
I AM A SURVIVOR!
Stubborness won't let me quit.
Born on these battlegrounds,
Been at war all my life.
I am a experienced solider.
I will win this fight!

L. Mack
2/10/2010

The Resistence has an important group of men,
That proved to be heroes time and time again.
They are considered to be the best in their line of work,
They've saved wars in the past ranked first in their class.
The four homeland heroes know nothing but to fight,
The only soldiers with the privelage to **** on sight.
Weapons on their back and grenades on their hips,
But each wear a tag of death on their wrists.

Once sentenced to death for a string of crimes,
Dark and chilling thoughts found in their minds.
But once the 1st war began instead of having them killed,
Their fate remained the same but in the battlefields.
They lived through the fight but serve in the their army,
To The Enemy these men are more than just harming.
With this being their 3rd war they came to a realization,
That they are nothing but slaves to their home nation.

Dusk’s last breath puff up the curtains
in a flash of the post traumatic kind.
A crocheted-cliché, peach-purple duvet
drape the mountains in war paint;
redwood generals’ shadows on attention,
disorderly pine infantrymen struggle
against the wind,
some broken,
most wounded,
shattered limbs on display.

The war hero sighs into the bowels
of an instant noodles cup; dumplings shiver
((uncooked liver)) when he whistle-whispers
untold stories of courage,
guts served on blood-soaked battlegrounds;
no-one listens,
save spiders
with hairy legs
that hang on his every word.

They sailed over seas as they prepared thier weapons,
The battle will begin in just a matter of seconds.
The soldiers live in fear but wants to die brave,
Because dying over here will not give them the proper grave.
They are there not only with guns in their palms,
But 88,000 tons of missles and bombs.
The mentality of these soldiers are barbarick-like,
Because they want to shoot first and bury cities under the earth.

This isn't the first time they all have been to war,
But the Enemy has weapons the Resistence has never seen before.
The Resistence is to find and destroy any nuclear threats,
But little do they the know the threats aren't real.
So in this game of **** or be killed,
Fighting over threats that aren't even real.
Because now the Enemy's plans have moved to new heights,
Because here comes the Resistence to begin the fight

All the ghosts / who never sinned

Are gossiping up in heaven again

They say Michael has been visiting Lucifer’s wings again

They say it’s the anniversary / it’s a spring ritual

From when Michael cast off his own dark parts

And Lucifer abandoned his angel wings  

-

The grave / in modern day / is now half lit by the Denny’s open sign

Buzzing like neon only half the lights are broken

And Michael himself

Is half shadowed by his cigarette / he tells himself he’s not sinning

Because this drug isn’t against the law / and he can’t ever **** himself

-

The drag pulls at the place humans have hearts

And it hurts like a flaming sword

His hand hasn’t stopped shaking / by the time he breathes all the tar out

He breathes out again and again / like there might still be smoke in his lungs

And is he wrong?

-

All the humans / who were sinning when lucifer fell

Were gossiping on earth

And Michael’s hearing the story again / through the ***** Denny’s window

Some kid who lives off / ego / drugs / and subreddit pages

Tells another around a mouthful of pancakes

“When Lucifer fell he cried and his tears scared his face,”

And Michael who couldn’t watch then / doesn’t know if this rumor is true now

And the other kid in the booth / thinks the boy is a philosophical genius

Just grins around his own pancakes and drugs / says “everything tastes like chalk.”

-

Michael’s stuck on asphalt

Digging his toes hard into his shoes and / his whole foot lays flat pushing into the ground

But he wants to take his own head off

To let it spin away

Or maybe he just needs to lose pieces of himself / let the roses blooming beneath the skin

Cut away at the bone until he’s bleeding enough to be mortal

And sit with the two kids who don’t know themselves

Gymnasiums
Modern battlegrounds,,
Those days...

Blood on the floor,
And spittle.

Rival towns,
White - Red.

Sitting Bull long gone,
Custer long dead.

Native sons,
Sons of pioneers
Still locked in enmities,
Remembrances of treaties broken,
Lying words,
Hatreds long unspoken.

So much of fear
So little trust,
Braggarts claiming coup,
Braggarts thinking war
Through basketball.

So it was one night
I slipped and fell
In a reservation gym,
Heard the hiss and laughter,
Felt the rush of fear...
Anger came.

Before my racist pride
Could grow,
I felt a hand,
Heard a voice,
"You okay?'
Spike Bighorn
Pulled me to my feet
Before a silent crowd.

A quiet act of bravery
That spoke aloud
Made me see the way
Through hate,
Set me on a path
To lead me forty years....

An act of kindness
In a place of fear
Defuses tension,
Ends the wars,
Shames the cowards,
Fills the void
With hope.

-------------------

Oh, planet of the azure,
Cypriot sands,
Nordic beauty,
Amazonian lands,
Nile river plains,
It’s plain to see that our world
is a paradise for the
paradisiacs and the aphrodisiacs,
The business suited men,
The wedding dressed women,
The children of the soil.

But also plain to see are the
oil-stricken sands,
Viking battlegrounds,
Deforested lands,
Dry river plains.
Unknowns and ****** deviants,
Power hungry animals,
Divorce cases to be,
Already dead.

Oh, land of the azure,
Strike up a match and burn us all down,
Won’t you?

Oh, paradise world,
A giant floating blue pearl,
Cut us all down and burn our ashes?

Let us make amends,
Blue and green marble,
For we have doubted your sands,
Lands, and beauty,
We have doubted them whilst we have stood upon them.

For we are too tall to see what heaven lies beneath our feet,
And we look to the skies for heaven whilst we are among angels.

Instincts rising from the ashes
A long forgotten rage
Boasted proudly long ago
Now seems to fade with age

Through blood and war torn battlegrounds,
A fierce loyalty was wrought-
Because even back then the people knew
Happiness can’t be bought

Time may heal all wounds,
And things may change with age
But for those who carry that ancient anger
The future is their cage

We praised them and we trained them
With murderous intent
Then peace dulled our edge
And into the corner they went

And though peace isn’t shameful,
It just doesn’t seem fair-
That for something once so prized
Now they must despair.

My glass will be half full
  half empty 'til

one day when I spill my last
   drop wasted

not on tenderness nor on
    battlegrounds

I will succumb with a broken heart
   numb

from the frequency I have spilled
    my need

to only have my gratuities
   taken

for granted or weakness
   by those I tried

to love.

Dandelion Flights, so Dandy
He's a Swell kinda fella
If you catch him at a proper Hour
He gets the Rosy Red, ya See
Reviews Legends, some about
Storming the Beaches of Normandy
Gritting Power of this Jaws,
Leans in close for Dramatists Pause
An Aged Mouth, the Black of Life
Spits over into his World of Words
Spirits gathering, the Deadening in Delivering
The Tales of the Long Lost Listeners
I Revel in the Imagery, Mindsight Sees
Battlegrounds Soundtrack
The lapping Tide, the remote Tanks and Warplane Engines, the dusty soldiers yelling out commands,
Words too faint to Understand
but the Sound of Fear, Gutwrenching, Rage, Pits of Painstaking, Heroic Strain

I'd so easily slip back in Time
To relive his Stories of Lucid Dreams

WAKE-UP ISN'T CONTRAST

I Only Will my Eyes open
After a Silence has Befallen
My Lids Jolt Open,
As I survey the Scene, Listening, Feeling for any Sign and Everything The Moment collapsed
In to the Present Presence.

Reaching over the Table
I felt for breath and the Old Man's Essence, I sighed and shook my head Knowingly  
This Man who fought all Those Battles and Lived to Tell,  Would not leave in It's Retelling,
not from this World nor the Next
No way, Not this One....He was just One of the many Spirits that passed through from Time to Time, and needed
an Ear to hear His Story...
I certainly didn't Mind...
Ethereal Sport is my Truest kinda Scene.

Hundred contestants put on an island
Waiting for a sixty-second countdown
Suddenly waking on a plane
Forced to jump to begin their game
Parachutes open all around
Number of players already gone down
I set my course towards the school
Trying to land on its roof
I find a gun with some bullets
Reload it full and equip my helmet
Come across a first aid
People below me throwing grenades
I follow the stairs to the direction of sound
Notice someone in the corner being proned
Helping myself with a red dot
Aim their head and take the shot
A clean ****, my first one
Another behind, trying to run
Turn around, spray my ammo
Now two are killed, i'm feeling like a rambo
Check their bodies, grab their loot
Head to south on foot
Pass by a naked guy asking for a fist fight
I say nope, and do a three-sixty noscope
You don't say... he got away
Have to make haste, no time to waste
Gas is approaching with a rapid speed
Better go for that UV
Drive over the bridge to the military island
Looks like i'm in a final showdown
Take cover on a field
Level three vest as my shield
Knock down few more, only four are left
But it's too late, i've been camped
Two bullets sniped through my head
I placed third and now i'm dead
The cycle continues forever and ever
Or until you get tired
But don't give up, be a winner
Go and get your chicken dinner.

The battle over poetry
The soldiers fight
their words, their weapons.
The historic battlegrounds dedicated in honorable memorials,
studied in English classrooms everywhere.
The meek soldiers follow in the footsteps of the noble commanders that have paved the battlegrounds for them.

The quiet soldiers want to fight,
the drafted,
given the gift of perfect aim but can never choose the right target.

I join the fight,
The fight to express thoughts and beliefs
Your words, silver bullets, sink deep into my skin.
They do not reach my heart, however.
They sink deep into parts of me that will not **** me,
but will leave me screaming in pain.
The pain of your words cut deep.
I struggle to fight back,
my pain, my motivation to keep up the fight.

The drafted are invisible
The fight continues,
the soldiers longing to be commemorated for the pain they endured in the fight.
We are the drafted,
the unnoticed.
Our pens, our weapons
and this battle is far from over

Put me on the shoulders of men
and I will not fail
Rise up through the disastrous causes
and I will conquer

For my fellow man I will lead
and cast out madness
Survive now, in the moment
and bleed them with fear

Through the battlegrounds of anger
and civil disobedience
I will guide the willing
and soldier forward into this septic war

"Gamer."
"Nerd."
"Shut-in."
"Loner."
"Loser."

Synonyms to some people,
jokes for others,
but painful for most.

The kind of pain that sticks with you
not like a scalding or a stab-wound,
but like a little shadow
some small, slimy version of yourself
that blocks the way
whenever you turn to the mirror.

I’ve been followed around
by that monstrous little thing
wearing my face
who manages to whisper away
the few hours I would find in a day to be free
“You’re lazy.”
“Fat.”
“Useless.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Childish.”

I would be lying if I said I never believed what he told me.

But I realized something
about the word “Gamer,”
and “Nerd.”
“Shut-in.”
“Loner.”
even “Loser.”

I like them.

Because when someone else uses them
to turn me into a joke
they don’t understand why those insults
are really compliments.

When I reach for my controller
and turn on my TV,
it’s no different then opening a great book,
starting up that perfect song,
or staring at any marvelous canvas of acrylics or oils.

For a few hours
every few days,
I get to escape.
To fly away.
I’m no longer any version of myself
that I don’t want to be.

This world is mine.
I have no shadow here.

Video games don’t melt your brain,
they save it
if you need them too.

I’ve ticked away more late nights
and countless lazy Sundays
on dungeons and puzzles,
boss fights and battlegrounds
than I care to think.
But I needed to.

I got to be a hunter
an assassin
a superhero
and roam the open plains of alien worlds
when I was glued to my bed
for six weeks after surgery.

I got to laugh and shout
and curse and stop caring
after endless high school days
when I came home without a smile
feeling like nothing at all

I got to slay dragons,
wage wars,
and explore galaxies
on the worst days of my life.

I got to learn
that when you fail and fall
sometimes all you need to do
is “Press X to Respawn,”
and start over again.

I got to be a super soldier:
I was strong, charming, and indestructible
on the day my father died.

I have lived a million lives
with nothing more than a big TV
and a handheld piece of plastic.

And if the price of all those lives
all those adventures,
those galaxies,
those heroes,
and those conquests on those horrible days when I was starved of a smile
is to be a “Nerd,”
or a “Shut-in,
a “Loner,”
or a “Loser,”

that seems like one hell of a deal.

the thing is,
we've all waged war on ourselves.

we've all been warriors against our
own body,
our own mind,
thoughts.

we've all told ourselves
that the things we create are not good enough,
that our hearts are not strong enough,
that we are so small compared to this sinking earth,
and we could never do anything about it except
scream and scream
from someplace high
until someone hears us,
saves us.

we've all torn
our bodies apart
whether it be with our fingers,
guiding razors, scratches,
adorning our precious skin with
purple bruises,
red slashes.
whether it be with our state of
mind,
shrinking ourselves,
pitying ourselves.
whether it be the
acceptance of heartbreak,
and the un-willingness to let it go.
we try to find salvation
in tiny, bitter pills,
try to find love in our medication.

the thing is,
we've all held battlegrounds within ourselves
and we're still so unkind.

we've been a shelter for ****** genocides
of creativity, and
we've held car crashes
of broken trains of thought,
in our screaming and thrumming mind.

we've held bombs within us,
exploding, shattering inside,
lodging us with
painful reminders of what it is
to be human,
alive.

the thing is,
we're all war veterans,
with both hidden and violent scars
from fighting
the lethal battle that is
raging within.

and that's okay.

just know
that you will win someday.

coming to think of it

the first woman
to whom I ever
had been very close
must have been desperate
to claim a father
for her three-month child
as yet unborn

she came into my bed
   out of the blue
with fierce determination

the mission failed
   I was too cautious
and her rash parting
left me wondering
at her dismay

not until some months later
   when I saw her push the pram
did I become aware I had
   unwittingly
emerged fairly unscathed
from ancient battlegrounds
of social order


* *

I feel, in the soul, in the belly of the beast.
Flaming coals burning holes in canvas paintings of the East.
At least I know I've been learning captioned lullabies.
Uncovering truths as day by day the lyrics have come to unwind.

My dad is a rock,
He is tough, and I've tried.
But I hope that someday we'll find crystals inside.
Or he'll stop punching holes through the walls of people's lives.
With bleeding fists,
I wish his anger would find a cave and go hide.

My mom is like magma,
she sits and she steeps.
She takes rocks and she melts them into pools around her feet.
She erupts in spurts of vulnerable untruths,
And hot anger that scars, chars, and burns anyone standing close to her.
But when lava sits, and when it has dried.
From the infertile past battlegrounds,
Forests will rise.

stage 1 of therapy and i have not
made progress. the whispers
stalk me through the battlegrounds
of school corridors - "she tried
to off herself with anxiety pills and left
no letter full of blood"- there's
no part of me left to imagine.
why are my secrets never my own? do
they not belong to me, do they
not belong to me, do i
not belong to me?

stage 2 of therapy and i
am still so terrified
of funerals
and of coffins
and of suicide notes
and i
am so horrified that my heart is drowning
my body is bleeding i won't admit
this pains me so much and i must've
loved everyone so hard, so deeply
there's nothing left to share
this hurts so
this hurts so
this hurts so bad
the repetition is crushing my skull.

stage 3 of therapy and i am
not dead. i am not dead.
i am not dead. i think i'm
losing my sense of self and
everything lacks meaning
and i am dying
and the breath is struggling
and the lungs are struggling
and everything is struggling
and i am dying.
but i am not dead.

stage 4 of therapy and i haven't yet
shot down the parts of myself
attempting to strangle the blood
straight out of me
but i haven't shot myself, either.
which is progress.
progress.
little
by little
progress, a word which i have never
yet delighted in the pleasures of feeling.
progress.

We hear the sounds of approaching thunder
Drowning out the cries and pleas
Of people calling out for freedom--
Urgent calls in times like these!
March!

We hear the words that spit and sputter--
That splatter against mellifluous sounds
Of peace, of hope, of promise, of caring,
Creating verbal battlegrounds.
March!

We see the dark and threatening clouds
Looming above, waiting to rain
On love and reason. The winds of hatred
Equal the force of a hurricane.
March!

We see around the neck of compassion
A cruel, ever-tightening noose,
While the henchmen multiply--
A surge of bigotry on the loose.
March!

We feel in our hearts the constant longing
For dreams that should be guaranteed
By thoughtful laws and not by decisions
Forged from ignorance, power, and greed.
March!

We feel the sadness, pain, and despair
Of all who are trampled and left behind,
Of all whose rights are being denied,
Of all who are hated and maligned.
March!

We know that we can transcend bias;
When myth prevails, wisdom departs.
We can flourish by wisely removing
The chains of intolerance from our hearts.
March!

We know that we have the potential
To live in a country governed by laws
Embracing all the people here
And freeing us from tyranny's claws.
March!

March to demonstrate solidarity
With others who hear the urgent call.
March together in peace for social
And economic justice for all!
March!

-by Bob B (1-31-17, 1-17-18)

*This is an update and reposting of my Jan 2017 poem.

You wanna ****?, what the ****?
You're starting to sound like Blanca
The mother of my son
You really think that's what I'm looking for
You got things twisted, sloppy unlike before
I'm original not subliminal, can you copy?
It's amazing yet disappointing
How the world thinks, feels, and evaluates
It's not about incriminating
It's about reincarnating dead souls
Giving life not taking it & destroying it
If you're out to mislead I'll make you bleed
Scream your lungs out with deadly shouts
Until your voiceless, ******* with my beloved
You crossed the line and done it all
You devour my precious lady &
You'll witness a vicious killer cold & shady
She's strong and potentially vital
Spiral wordly elements, into my spiritual twin
Take her down too, and you're best be a fool
Worst mistake you ever do, cuz I'm clever
You stopped me but stop her punk player &
Your dead meat, in the ******* street
I'm serious not delirious evil ***** I'd switch
Like a sudden twitch don't flinch ***** wimp
I'd love by far too long to see this happen
Don't ******* out raw start clapping
Whacking smacking busters on the ground
This the devil's playground war battlegrounds
To my love **** all you want, not interested
I thought you'd be my one of a kind
I guess was stupid ******* blind
Waiting for something that's been hit hard
Pounded cat, with nasty baseball bats
You let rats, come in and attack your temple
Keep them, **** them, love them,
I don't care about them, I'll ****** them
But it's okay that's you now I must settle
Into sorrows reality and despair

Route the dark in light
Ducking down
Masonic freedom fighter
Tend to rend the holy crown

Chalice overflowing
When did this cup pass to me
Empty vessel wrestled from a twine
Entwined fate
Engorged ball of hate
Flattening the gluttons
I've seen it all
Its never right to Intermediate
Limb of light
Invigorated, left unchecked
Balances precariously
Between the seance of death
And the scorn of the righteous
Overbearing and meaningless
And still it beckons

To walk a thin line
Is to take everything in stride
The same stride
We strove for

Through every long night
Waist deep in the sin
Crying out internally
Giving everything to win
Starving on the battlegrounds
Carving up and laying down
Doubting every action
Stained by affliction
Destined to persist

Slaying anything

Monster...
Demonic...

Only light escapes

Time advances, mightily
As soldiers do on battlegrounds
With no regard for anyone
Some may say
So why do we count seconds down
As they travel forward?
Marching one by one
Through gold or grey
Are we missing out on
The next ticking clock
or the next soldier's walk?
Will we find the might to fight and stay?

We hear the sounds of approaching thunder
Drowning out the cries and pleas
Of people calling out for freedom--
Urgent calls in times like these!
March!

We hear the words that spit and sputter--
That splatter against mellifluous sounds
Of peace, of hope, of promise, of caring,
Creating verbal battlegrounds.
March!

We see the dark and threatening clouds
Looming above, waiting to rain
On love and reason. The winds of hatred
Equal the force of a hurricane.
March!

We see around the neck of compassion
A cruel, ever-tightening noose,
While the henchmen multiply--
A surge of bigotry on the loose.
March!

We feel in our hearts the longing
For dreams that should be guaranteed
By thoughtful laws and not by decisions
Forged from ignorance, power, and greed.
March!

We feel the sadness, pain, and despair
Of all who are trampled and left behind,
Of all whose rights are being denied,
Of all who are hated and maligned.
March!

We know that we can transcend bias;
When myth prevails, wisdom departs.
We can flourish by wisely removing
The chains of intolerance from our hearts.
March!

We know that we have the potential
To live in a country governed by laws
Embracing all the people here
And freeing us from tyranny's claws.
March!

- by Bob B (1-31-17)

It is  a numbered  milestone
through days of skirting
dozens of poems, getting under writers skins
seeking pearls of inspiration to polish
and grow in my own writing. Diving deep
was not easy, especially when the weight of the poem
soaked in sadness, soulful, the words rolling off
so many wonderful writers, putting their souls down
in verses and visuals deeply human, some disturbing
I loved them all.

The delightful ones were misty mornings and magic
encounters with snow and icicles
driven by sheer sharp focus in the beauty
it abounds in. How satisfying it was
to sit back and wander with in the bright glow
imagery that each poet crafted from a single sight
Amazing and enriching.

The sparks of humour that flew from some
kept the heat of the day and the chill of the night
under wraps, just me giggling and happy
at the strange and exotic way some things were said.

Then again the rumbles of war and hate
sounded through some verses. drums cussing the air
bugles blowing, feet stomping rhymes and rhythms
that tore the battlegrounds with blood and bone
and bayonets ripping gut and muscle
from enemy lines. Bravo to our heroes
who wrote with such marching orders.
They were soldiers in command.

So many young mothers spoke of haunted
youth and broken dreams that wrenched their
love and hollow echoes in their bruised bodies.
That was sad. I could hold out a hand to them all.
The medals were theirs to clasp and cuddle
even as they fought their way to being whole again.

In sections where god and angels dwelt in
heavenly abode was pleasant. Like a safe house, I felt at home
in these poems, sheltered and warm, sharing what little belief
lay in me to be part of a choir of poets singing
in harmonious song.

I watched as contests came and closed. There were so many.
Each one had a purpose, some were exotic. others
mundane, some silly, some inspiring, some space fillers.
a few testing their wings, some falling by the wayside,
some rising to the majestic occasion with rigid rules
but  all defining a purpose.
I wondered why some contests even existed
seeking absolute control over topics and braving
icy, polar winds of meaninglessness.

The newcomers were always a treat. I read through dozens
of newcomers work, searching for the one poem that
would sparkle in a dump of words. The one that would magically rise
and smoulder in its pain and agony or lilt with seduction
and sensuality. There were many new poets testing the waters
unknowing of the talent they possessed, waiting for someone to read
and comment on their masterpieces.

Finally, I wrote my hundredth poem summing
up all of the little bits and pieces that make
this a worthwhile past-time.

Author Notes

This is my 100th poem on this site. Its been fun writing and commenting and reading and enjoying the works of so many poets. Perhaps no other site has this many poets putting their work on display.

Its been a pleasure being here.

Two hundredth poem - here I come!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The world is bare and colourless
The life has been drained from all of us
Now we are drunk on our soberness
As we run through old fields that are now battlegrounds

The morphine smiles aren't enough
Drunken promises hurt too much
So i'll pump ****** into my blood
These things hurt less than they should

raining:
smells clean,
cold. sky,
a smoky mass
of liquid.

seems fitting
look your best
seems ripping
confidence shot
through your legs
don't you dare
start shaking

emotions
wild, and
untamed.
actions in
a frenzy
unnamed
bone held
kisses are
stinging
your flesh.
an eruption
of action
cradled
in malice.
intentions?
no direction.
attention?
dissection.
innocent?
objection!!

lights on
dress up
lights off
get down
sun's up
shake off
sun's down
take on...

consequences with no direction
actions without thought or reason
no wonder all the courtesy
was more than just teasing
with two broken hearts
one might slow the pounding,
or maybe take another beating.

a glass 1/4 full,
            3/4 poisoning me.
a gift from the devil,
once a charming fellow,
but he encouraged me to swallow.
"Drink, drink! Enjoy the mystery,
don't stop to think. Drink, drink!"

encouragement towards destruction
break your fist on my plastered heart
you've got the strength for construction,
a ******* art, tear me apart with your
actions, distractions!! your lips are poison,
no more sweet than ****.

doubtfully beneficial
for either party, who's
to say who knows best?

each action has a reaction
a movement of the tongue,
lips, hands, teeth, fist, just
the same, ends with another
consequence.

"Think, think!" the black angel rings,
"Think, think! You were never King!"

THEIF!! theif!!

you've taken what was not yours to take
accepted what you should have denied
wanted to find some sort of paradise?
maybe you should have stopped gazing
when you met his eyes, let yourself cry
alone, where you belong. never should
have opened a black-holed, back-breaking
always-aching, can't help from taking, heart.
not only a wreckage of your own faults,

the battlegrounds for healing:
day one.

Too many wars inside.
Not enough mouths stood up
to tell stories about them.
Ears kept shut.
Eyes refused to dig
what’s been abandoned in time.
Too many graveyards of
what could have been saved
if only you had hands that dared
to get everyone
out of their battlegrounds
without the worry of your name
not being written on history books.

I was often
envious
of those that knew which road to choose,
walking it like a familiar memory,
while I would stumble and fall.

I blindly moved forward.
Sometimes taking too long,
to pick myself up,
bruised and scraped
backtracking
wandering
and
making up for lost time
in both lightness  
and
overwhelming darkness

I would pray for a sign,
a compass
to give me direction,
as the sun and moon
exchanged glances

But somewhere along my journey,
envy went missing
and
now I often pass by those
that knew their way-
voraciously attempting
to trace their steps
back to the road they came from

Searching
for the wrong turn they made
ragged
blinded
by
their mistakes

As I look back at the view
of my trail
from where I have risen
after every fall
and I see my bruises and scrapes
that created a map

I notice its key
identifying pitfalls and battlegrounds
mountaintops
valleys
and  
rivers that flow effortlessly

and I find myself
at peace.