Little bombs fall in my room.
I’m choking on the soot.
Mental lines breached and
strange flags are raised.
2 ‘AM and no one knows
I have been invaded.
"My life has been the poem I would have writ
But I could not both live and utter it."
- Henry David Thoreau
The balls of my shoulders bulge
with the flat-line of my collarbone between -
a firm stand for a heavy mind.
Hunger pats my back like an old friend.
The thoughts are eating me away.
Shaky hands and a lagging breath,
pinching skin and mind games.