Monster… an old poem that was spawned from depression…

I’m a soldier.

Of all the things I could have been, I chose to be a killer of men.

I am owed nothing but nightmares, trauma and scars, 

It’s the life I chose, these are my rewards.

I’m a soldier.

Defender of free will, or so we are told, 

Toeing the line, believing the lie, my psyche bears the wounds of my pride.

I am a soldier. 

A killer of men, wretched husk of war worn flesh,

To damaged, to be good for anything else.

The fires burn in my mind, of ravaged cities left behind,

Of people frightened, of husbands lost, 

Of those caught in crossfires, tracer fire galore,

Of children who skip over playgrounds in fun, 

Shot to pieces, lifeless corpse,

I see my face, the fire in my eyes,

The glee on my countenance, as I shout “die.”

I’m a monster, run and hide.

Good for nothing, but killing and living a lie.

Leave a Reply

A Website.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: