Hysterical letters to my sanity

✮ We are born burning

this poem is about anyone who knows as they read that it is for them.

There are so many different types of souls.
Those born to love, to give, to prosper.
Those born to create, those born to heal.
I think, |I know fore I have met, I have been| there is also those who are born to fight.
They have fire fuelling every breath, shrapnel hearts and bloodied fists.
They scream with fury and let red pour from their eyes.
Some don't wish to be dosed with such rage but they are meant to survive.
Meant to go through misfortune, meant to grow strong and fight.
They are born with sharp tongues, curses and insults leaking out over the years.
Maybe they find sublime serenity within liquor or smokes, maybe they take all that fight and bash in heads for fun.
To blow off steam.
Either way these souls were gifted with a war in their chest by Ares and forging hands of flames by Hephaestus.
I know you cannot lay down your arms so I ask that you shout with all your passion into the universe.
It will hear your pleas, I promise you.