Battle of a Crying Warrior

There's a painful version of me
drawn with a crismson crayon
Early does she rise to a dark horizon
and she grins heavily while weilding
a thousand knives
She feeds like a rabid wolf off
my plenty depression
Then returns to the enjoyment of
her mischevious taunting
She hatefully twirls the key to my
mysterious sanity around her rusty fingers
I often wonder if people can see it
pouring from my ears on the bus
Music does not drown her out, it only numbs
Her sharp hands are worn like a fancy
accessory as they borrow in my flesh,
the invisible marks of my sin
I carry a shoulder of shovels
to bury her in my subconscious
Someone told me only time would tell
but it hasn't spoken to me in a while
Slowly dying to save my own life,
One day I'll cut her dark
juggular with my white light
The dimming of hope is a close catch
in a sportless game
Determined to keep her frozen breath from
snuffing the warmth from me
Impenetrable is the memory of
her lovely rampading soul
to which beauty has a dead side
It seeks to cross over endless oceans
of my emotional tsunami
Riding my roller coaster and riding me
until the bitter dusk is morning
Eventually, her vibrant color will fade,
leaving, sadly, the silent wounds of
a battle crying warrior