I can spill blood for my country,
But I can’t love another man.
We can grasp the trigger of a weapon,
But we can’t hold hands.
My lips can taste the dirt of a foreign land,
And give my soul for the ones that can’t,
But we warriors who walk another path,
Can’t touch the freedom,
That blankets this land.
A bullet cares not for who I love,
Just that I’m in its path.
Nor does the explosion cares,
Who receives its wrath.
Nor does the dust cares,
Who it swallows whole,
Only that nature return those for which it holds.
Am I a lesser man,
Because I love a man?
And if hell awaits me,
Why should I fear?
For hell is walked before death,
Through rages and cages,
Through stages and misinterpreted pages.
And is my sacrifice tainted?
Because the love I choose will never be sainted?