Free Spirit Poetry

Whose Battle Is This?

Whose Battle Is This?

 

I look in the mirror and see myself strong.

I walk down the street with someone else's confidence

I see many things

I feel many aches

 

And when I come back home,

to see myself in the mirror again

I only see,

weak.

 

Each day,

my choices bring blames

shames

disgrace

and despair

 

I've asked before,

“If I wrote a suicide note,

who would know?

Who would care?”

 

In all their eyes,

I'm a laughing stalk.

No one can feel, see, or smell guilt.

No one except...

them.

 

Hell has risen high in my life,

but this...

this is not a battle I should be in.

 

This isn't my battle,

but yet, I walk in the rain of bullets

getting hit,

one....

bleeding

two....

dying a little more each day

three....

 

Last time I checked,

strike three, you're out,

but I'm never out.

I'm the living dead.

Walking through life that's not mine to live.

 

I feel nothing

I see nothing

I bleed nothing

 

I'm just venom to them,

but when will they become the venom?

When I'm dead?

Or when they don't feel, see, or bleed?

 

After all, the living dead only kill to have fun.

Should I have that kind of fun?

 

No,

because I'm alive.

 

No,

because I see

I feel,

I ache,

I bleed...

 

The guilt would only kill me.