February

These walls tighten around me as if an assassin’s own piano wire was at my throat

There is no time

I have to choose

I have been here before

The crossroads of yearning and unknowing

My heartbeat echoing itself throughout these empty chambers

I could escape this breathing labyrinth

Grab the mud covered hand that reaches for me

Tread til my shoes run bare and the blood from my heels mix with the clay

Or I could turn back

With what I know and what I don’t know as the true causes for retreat

And shelter myself in the thickest armor forged in the hottest fire

Or

As all history suggests

I will play only the fool

And I will allow these walls to crush me

Bullets

(Spoken)

 

We’re all at war.  Not driven by a King’s command with the wave of a scepter, we are driven in mere survival.  If she wants to run, let her.  The battlefield is no place for a lady but gravely they wander like the rest of us.

These are not the Crusades.  We are not fighting for our Gods or our beliefs.  We are not here because we volunteered to serve our country with our flags raised high, we are fighting the moon in hopes that sun is nigh.

This battle can’t be cloned or destroyed.  It doesn’t disappear or dissolve.  We are thrown into the battlegrounds armed with nothing but our will confronted with a problem we need to solve.

More inaccurate than a standardized test we are tested, given bubbles we need to fill.  Friends can barely understand the pain, so we don’t fill them in.

Not on the war we face.  That’s not fair to them.  By nature they want to understand and help us, and by nature we drop a boulder on ourselves and never speak.

We are fighting a war and there are millions of us.  This dark dark closet we have all been in for so long will come crashing down and we will face it together.

The moon only stays out so long.  So we will march.  We will not be swayed from our path until we see the enemy collapse.

We walk toward the bombardment of shells, almost as if we were bound to hell itself.  No hardhat, no Kevlar.  No weapons of our own and barely a glimmer of hope.

We march on, almost tearing down the moon, we see the glimmer of the sun.  Until the bullets drop us, one by one by one, bye all.