Poetrified - a collection of poetry

wrong game

What is it like to fight a battle with myself?
Well,
I can't let myself lose,
But, the thing is,
I can't really attack myself, either.
So, what I do is
Put on a broken record
That repeats a musical death sentence.
My guilty pleasure let's me savour
On the rotting mass of hate speech
That contains a signboard of 'Criticism'
But when the moonlight started to resemble sadism,
I knew, just knew, that I had to fight.

But because my cracked shield,
couldn't armour me in front of the world,
I looked in the mirror and chose a weaker opponent.
I really plan on defeating my demons
Then deal with the humans out there.
But last night when my opponent
Smiled at me,
With her bloodied crooked teeth,
Bandaged wrists
And stabbing scars on her back,
I, for once, thought maybe I was in a wrong game.