To an ailing mental health

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The world keeps questioning me
What battles do I really fight? 
Why do I refuse to draw apart the curtains 
And let in some light? 
You see the battlefield is my mind.
And the pawns my thoughts.
They fiercely stab, 
Stab one another behind.
Yet the sun shines. 
Shines bright the next day.
The war ends. 
And I greet hope on my way. 
But you see the soil has already been
stained in red.
And slowly starts bearing, 
the stench of the dead. 
Darkness falls once more,
Clouds embrace the sky.
The Earth never really gets to heal.
And breaks into a cry. 

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