The Front

I could have sworn that we would make it–
that we’d be together until we died–
despite all the times I had to fake it;
because, you were emotional suicide.
I stopped breathing in minefields of apathy.
I lost most battles in trenches of the mind.
I tried defending against your sociopathy.
Quite quickly, my love for you couldn’t stay blind.
I was still willing to sign a peace treaty
and pay apparitions beyond what I could endure.
But you wouldn’t stop until my heart quit beating,
because you only want to wage frontal-lobe war.
You tried your Pearl Harbor deflations.
So, I learned physics and split atoms in two.
You built a fleet of Sherman-tank manipulations.
So, I mastered Navajo to Camp Pendleton you.
I bought binoculars of rounded psychology.
I wear jumper boots and buttons of grit.
Arsenals of truth with bayonets of authenticity
have made me offense-ready legit.
Your tanks are rusting and barely active.
I’ve filled the trenches in and got off the ground.
I sewed a parachute from Buddhist perspective
for aerial vision that’s code-talking sound.
I no longer think about fiery crashes,
or dying in the trenches of playing small.
I’ve mastered how to emerge from the ashes,
because I’m a trooper after all.
While I lost many a battle in the beginning,
trying to settle every single, slighting score,
defense will never bring about big-picture winning.
Only offense will end frontal-lobe war.

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