Curled up in the corner of my room,
A soldier of the war on myself,
I am the only man left standing.
The cadets I fought alongside have been
Beaten, and the battle is being lost.
I am on the front line of my mind,
Bayonet in hand,
Stabbing at the idea of surrender.
It is easier than fighting on,
But many casualties would be left.
The balance beam that is my conscience
Is swaying graciously,
Tilting in favour of giving up.
I crumple to the ground
And my lifeless body aches.
My battle is not over yet
But I have no strength to fight.
I look for security in those around me
But few of my troopers are left,
Leaving me to fight alone.
I am weak and broken
But not yet have I fallen.
My last breaths of determination
Are hanging in the air,
But I will fight to the death.
YOU ARE READING
Dark Poetry
PoetryMy random pieces of poetry, both inspired by depression and the happiness that makes me fight on.
