Cannons

A barrage called 
“Everything I’ve Ever Screwed Up”
enters the brain as a tickle
that only later starts exploding,
then never stops;

after
comes
the return fire called 
“Every Excuse.”

“Everything I Could Be” and “That Which I Love Most”
die in the crossfire.

When I am tired
of thinking of metaphors
for my struggle,
I drink.  When I drink,
I reload.  When I am reloaded

I sometimes wait
a whole minute
before ending
the truce.  I decide to call this

“Ending The Truce.”  I shall call this
“Being Myself.”  I call this
“Whatever, I’m Too Old To Change.”

Then,
here and everywhere, again comes
the burp
of cannons.