In a war with myself, thoughts become thunder.
In a war with myself, hiding a storm like a wrongly placed book on the shelf, each author's name—a thought's labeling,
In a war with myself, hiding an intrinsic hurricane,
between files, words, ink like rain, and masses of memories that look like books—chronological clouds.
In a war - outnumbered,
but I need no rescue,
We are all ******* helpless -
without any clue, that goes even for you.
Naive, ill, mute, deaf, and blind too.
Pin point pupils black, plug in the audio jack to bring old feelings back, feel your eyes roll back on frenzied spinnerets, skittering on a looped axis, rewinding tracks - like lit cannon powders rushed explosive power,
lit to end memories spread, and threaded like lines of gunpowder,
To hear them crash in an abrupt flash before the eyes, like an unveiled mask or facade disguise,
sceneries of shrapnel seconds began to shower,
and then land in flowers,
flowing from funeral-beds unbound to time, or the hour.
Oh, I'm alone,
Every night - I sleep this way.
I guess, it follows me like my shadow - a chain,
A casted shade of my body, the only thing that hasn't changed,
no matter how much I've broken, and been remade.
Every rose loses color, and doesn't look the same,
Especially, when aged
to the wisest stage - life after 8 decades.
Where a thorned stem becomes a cane, strong blooms become a wilted face, rose petals change from color to shades of grey, and a blossom's core becomes a glitched brain.
As everything seems to be
At least in sanity.
Like the wind,
I hear a secret calling,
from fiction, and make-believe,
They scream my name, "PTSD",
I look their way ~
To the whole world, yet there's only a few words to which they choose to say:
"Run, run away,
Escape all of reality."