foundpoem
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He goes for the goal, gets the cleat instead.
He falls to the ground clutching his shin;
Blood seeping between his fingers,
Cries pouring from his lips.
I haven’t told them the full story of my life because there is a war.
You saw people running around with guns and shooting each other?
I was twelve.
You should tell us about it sometime.
We’re tough and able, quite indefatigable
At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy
But listen closely:
In my mind,
Madness takes its toll.
What makes the hair on your arms rise,
your palms sweat,
the breath catch in your chest like a wild thing caged?
Is it the dark?
A fleeting memory of a bed ime story,