Diaries of War

My mind is trying to run away, my hand is chasing after it-

Every thought is eyeing escape, from the matter my heart is facing with them

My pen has been following their dissension, to the brink of emptying itself

Placing chapters in a trail of ink that outlines a silhouette myself

Books of dreams, fears, hopes, and tears sit on my shelf

Years of fighting form tiers of writing that create a collection in my library,

of war records, every front on which my heart and mind have fought

It's me, that the erection of this library has taught-

Because my vocabulary can vary, between what is conciliatory, and that, that is incendiary

Exists an infinite selection, stories of the slipperiest of slopes and the very rope i hold onto

From the 'Tales of Torment' to the stories of 'These Walls'

This is no old assortment, but a mile long log of missed calls

That mile might not be far enough for comfort,

For the battle-scarred grounds between flesh and spirit

It's not a war if attrition the mind and heart have become civilians in

Any attempt of conscious escape makes more sense,

Than any decision to take part in round after round of of what may only lead to oblivion

As every thought looks for a way out, from where the ground is shook around my heart

Another letter forms within my diary

And as far as my mind runs, my hand will follow, until my pen is completely hollow

And a new book is written for my library

Stories that stand stories from the floor,

They are, Diaries of War