Escapism.

A paper boat wrestles with restless seas to stay afloat, as amber sun collides with cotton, cobalt-coloured clouds. 
Bruises decorate my blackened, battered soul, soon even sanity slips away unseen, into some careless crowd.

Caught in the rapturous aftermath of hope, this reckoning is one I'd rather skip.
Bind my idle hands with rope, next stitch up my damaged lips. Button up these barren eyes, before they believe another lie.

Malevolent magnets pull me in opposite directions, this tug of war romance won't be won with weapons. 
Heaven has to wait for me to revert to being holy, 
as eraser smudges have replaced all remnants of the old me.

This haphazard, hollow heartbeat has become a battle drum, it sets the season for my sorrow, and the tempo for my gloom. 
Grief, just like a paring knife, carves up my insides, 
cutting away the only parts of me that I ever liked.

Anger erupts inside of me until I burst then tear apart at the seams; as a byproduct of failure, I've been blessed with many broken dreams. 
This ire is louder than the air raid sirens that empty Iraqi streets, so I pray that landmines are only found underneath the sand below your feet.