The Battlefield

 

People don’t understand

That my minds a battlefield

Daily my memories and dreams clash

As I walk through the field looking for spoils

Thoughts of success that won over experiences of failure

Dreams of hope that beat out memories of pain

 

People don’t see that at times

My mind’s a failing society because

I can’t seem to make it all come together

As one function

One system agreeing on a common goal

 

Instead it’s all voices

Debating for space

That I no longer have

But these articulate arguments

Have left me agitated at best

Because a weed is still a weed

Whether alone or amongst a field of flowers

 

But even when my dreams are ripe and in full bloom

The distorted voices tend to pollute the open air

And counteract against the light that feeds my desires

Yet and still I sit here amongst this garden

Tending to my will

Hoping that next season’s harvest

Might yield more goodwill

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