There are as many holes in my soul

As there are pores in my skin. 

Some are just a surface scratch,

But others branch deep within. 

The emotion simply drains away,

My soil no more than a sieve,

And every day that I wake up,

I question how I still live. 

After every war I've fought,

How am I still intact?

I am not quite broken,

But I am quite cracked. 

I look at how life used to be, 

And I look at life now

With evident disappointment 

And a furrowed brow. 

What has become of me?

What has become of this?

What has become of this beating drum

Waiting for death's kiss?