Walking down a street roaring with cars is someone being attacked by the shards of their mirror.
They will keep on strutting in spite of those questions of identity, those crises of being,
Though the person living within continues to die, little by little, with each gash made.
The march will not end unless the good ol’ Reaper has come asking for it,
And even then, the Reaper will be in for a fight with that mortal,
Who has made it a point to take each shard and cut down those who would dare,
Dare to hurt the people that would stand behind them, even when they are falling,
And their blood is seeping down their arms and pooling by their feet,
They can keep standing back up in the name of someone else,
Leaving their own to the shadows for the sake of keeping the spotlight on the others.
Far from being a veteran of history’s war-torn past, this one is experienced on the battlefield
Of the mind and heart, having survived, though battle-scarred, their traumas
Never to be spoken, going unremembered, forever at peril to be dishonored
Should they seek to regain the righteousness of living for the most important self


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