What a strange existence, peace.

The word itself must feel funny rolling off of people's tongue - a constant battle for fulfillment.

That's ironic, isn't it? Here's a poem about the battle for peace, but can you tell me the last time you looked her in the eye and didn't flinch?

Didn't bruise yourself to rest easy,

Didn't taste blood to get a little tipsy.

You probably can't and I don't blame you.

I was there once, too. Once.

This isn't a poem about war, this is a poem about peace and how I finally reached her, tucked away in a corner of paradise.

So beautiful to touch,

to hold,

to call mine.

It was like finding the Holy Grail, your favorite coffee grind, your favorite book...all in one.

I call peace home because I always leave on foot in the door, so she knows that I remember she's there; always grateful for making me rest easy, for planting my roots so deeply that I soar; for being my knight in armor, for helping me fight my battles, for the endless high. Peace isn't the absence of battle, it's knowing you'll make it through and in the end you go to bed with peace, tracing all your scars with her fingertips.