Bottled Up Soldier.

I have a lot of practice.
I have mastered this fine art.
It bubbles up and I swallow it down.
Demons trying to escape are shot on the spot.
Sometimes I fail as a sniper,
And it all comes out.
Fast. Rapid. Racing.
And I just can't breath.
And I just can't sleep.
And I just can't slow it all down.
And I just can't stop thinking.
But I do stop. Stop short.
I let my guard off duty.
My inner weapons all detonate.
It's only as a last resort.
Those who witness look with pity.
"Must be all the whiskey" they say.
They scoff and walk away.

Anxiousness. Depression.
They are the enemy.
Not me.
But it is me.
Me attacking me.
It's not my fault!
Stop calling me a drunk.
Stop calling me delusional.
Stop pitying me.
Stop assuming you know me inside.
I need to find a way to win this war.
It's not for any of you to decide.
So scoff and walk away,
My past will stop attacking one day.