Battle Drone

An attempt to speak about struggles with depressive episodes

I tell myself what I tell others:

Every day you're still here, you've won.

But what happens when the battle's never done?

I march away, victory flag held high

When the assassin comes to ensure I die.

The well of pain never runs quite dry

My fatigue of life crushes me

My mind

It lies

Says no one loves my kind.

I am a burden; this war is my burden

I seek solace in loving words then

And soon enough forget that I heard them.

The battle forcibly drafted me

And charged my soul an exorbitant fee.

My words and thoughts are not my own.

I don't want to be a war machine,

A battle drone.

Let these wounds pronounce me dead,

Let my body lie in blooms of red

All scarlet hues and no one's muse,

Please leave me for dead!

Then I hear a whisper, soft and sweet

My mind's curse gives me a sudden reprieve,

I am without a fight, the enemy concedes.

For now I can stand,

Brush the dirt from my knees,

Let me be me

Convince myself it's like a bad dream,

That the next time I am drafted

I have weapons crafted

An escape route is planned

And I've mapped it.

I'm so tired, and the battle's never done,

But I'm still here, so today I've won.

Author's Note

Just getting back into the swing of the writing thing, so be kind!