broadhead tip resistance

my neighbor is outside

piercing a cardboard target

with razor tipped arrows,

while I'm inside

writing poems

that make myself a target

in a world that wants me dead.

he's just as mad

about stuff as I am, but we both

have our own way

of venting.

me- a keyboard warrior

with a creative edge

who hates everything about the past

present & future.

him- an older version of me,

minus the creativity.

we're both watching

a war that keeps collecting

at our doorsteps,

however

what he doesn't know

is that I already died

three times

waiting for it to get here.