Troubled poet.

The trouble rips out of our skin,
in seconds of being triggered.
The trouble that clings to us
in those unnecessary free hours between writing.
A trouble that I can tell you turns my rhymeless work
into unreadable drivel.
There´s a heinous peace that smells of a
corpse at war.
The blackened veins write of
thoughts and angles
that leaves the optimist raw.