My Kinda Warrior

 

I love reading about warriors.
Not the ones with armors,
Knives as shields;
But those whose wrists
Demand a shield;
Their hands with knives
Dig through the skin;
With blood the consequence
Of it.

These warriors battle
with what’s within-
That ‘essence’ which neither
of us Can see;
A voice that’s strong and
fierce And grim;
An enemy no one but
the warriors Can feel.

Just one more time,
The voices scream;
You know you want to,
It’s your relief;
Oh how the voices
confuse and twist;
And lie their way into,
Making us bleed.

With time this voice can be
Diminished by will;
And the warriors they hide and-
bind their wrists
Drop the knives, shield the skin;
And they might bleed-
Tomorrow
But today, they choose to live.

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