the battlescars of personal wars
never look or sound all that heroic,
the mental anguish, the internalized trauma, the crippling anxiety
of waking up, getting dressed, and addressing the world
as a thing that doesn’t exist and never did
caught up in musical chairs played with toy soldiers
shooting arrows straight at my face,
blinding my sight, feeling as if this won’t end well,
because it never does, unless I put some
responsible stop loss in place
to ensure the pain will never be as severe as that time,
you know the one,
at least I think so…
come to think of it, I’ve seemed to have forgotten,
how embarrassing, please no, continue
with the battle,
cry, battles fought for keeps in abandoned fortresses to save
an uncaring princess
from an apathetic villain
made to look a lot scarier than they are,
they will,
suffering at the leisure of being the last one to a chair
when the music stops
Fred Aiken Writing 