There are battles that don’t wear armor,
wars fought in whispers, not roars.
Inside me, the enemy plants its flags,
builds fortresses out of my own fears.
I try to evict what doesn’t belong,
but some squatter thoughts refuse to leave.
They know my architecture intimately,
map every weakness like second nature.
This is not a battlefield of fists,
but one of silence, echo, and shadow.
I sharpen my voice into a weapon,
only to find it crumbling in my throat.
How do you fight what already knows you?
What hides in your reflection, lingering?
There are no exorcisms for yourself,
no safe distance between host and ghost.
So I soldier forward, uneasy on purpose,
tripping over barricades nobody can see.
Every inch of progress hard-earned,
every step somehow both mine and not.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: June 21st, 2026 06:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments3
It is those internal battles that are the bloodiest with the most casualties and a civil war losses on both sides. Well written Gray
Thank You Soren
Most welcome Gray
This has a heavy, internal gravity—like the conflict is happening in a space no one else can quite enter, but everyone recognizes in some form.
What stands out is how you frame the mind as both territory and trespasser—something that builds its own defenses, then refuses to leave them. That idea of “squatter thoughts” is especially strong: it makes the struggle feel lived-in, persistent, hard to evict.
Thank You Thomas. I try to evict people who live rent free in my head.
Well written
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