At War With Myself

Mistook my palm lines for my front-lines,

Where the trenches are.

Trenches, from my nails that scrape off the skin of my palm.

The soldiers under these trenches are firing bullets into my veins,

For the sweat in my quivering palm reeks of anxiety.

And the throbbing in my veins, as if the sound of gunfire.

The soldiers know this is time,

When the demons from the mind,

Have arrived to wage a war at the city of the heart.

From the mind, where they only saw desolation and destruction,

To the battlefield, my heart.

The troops have arrived, of anguish, of anxiety and of agony.

Surrender, foolish heart,

Your rib cage will not armor you.