The lighted cries of homecoming and well,
Flesh crusted, cake with a million yard stares,
Epics written on the back of men,
Not old enough to dream. What’s a Hero?
What is it for me that I should see?
Old medals that rusts, and a gut that purges,
The drunken youth that fuel the absurdity…
That Parades could drown out the massive strain,
We’ve come home to a war of our own,
Man vs Man, Ideas vs Ideas,
Dogma vs Domga…what’s a hero?
I saw you,
In the little things:
The way I cross my Ts,
My hand still shakes,
As it dances with anxiety and memory,
You’d say “I’ll never leave you…”,
But war made you a liar,
As it always does.
Like a scab once removed;
A tank dances on pavement,
A pirouette of massive grace,
Metal and asphalt,
Commune in a torrent love affair,
Young and despondent,
An adolescent praise,
I thought I’d miss it,
The way youth burned my hands,
Our hearts fell in love with a cure,
That normalcy couldn’t endure,
Would write to you with inexbriant praises,
Between the Arabian desolation,
You’d forget my name,
Through western chaos,
I was once removed,
And came back with someone
I never knew.
If you would like to support my writing you can do so monthly for $1 or $3 through Patreon. Your support will help me continue writing and bring my poetry collections into print form.
You can also purchase my first collection of poetry titled War Poems: Over There digitally for $2.99 here.
War Poems: Over There is a gut-punching journey into the soul of a solider with striking imagery relating war experiences in Iraq and the latter acclamation to civilian life. It is a collection of deep and honest thoughts on war and its aftermath without glamour or flag-waving. Regret, suicide, love, lost, naivete, destruction, are deeply woven within the candid poetry of Over There. If you have ever wanted to feel and discover what Veterans face both in the great of battle and in the silence of suffering, Over There will open your heart.
Anxiety starts to build into a roar.
Sweat glistens restless palms.
“What the hell am I doing?”
Escapes from the lips of a reserved man.
Delusions cease to confound confusions,
As passerbys are glued to screens with high resolutions,
And is it clear,
That I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Rising frost from my breath,
Jumps from a rising chest,
And frigid sleeping fingers,
Awakens like a discovered crest,
I fumble between heighten senses of elevations,
When spasmodic noises amplifies my frustrations,
And is it clear,
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Congested roads slick with reflections,
Paints a man wandering and broken,
Grappling a pleading proclamation,
Besieging patrons for oil rubbed tokens,
His pleading eyes go unspoken,
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Lost in a warm armor of drunken rage,
Shifting through bouts of confession and railing subterfuge,
I light a match and burn off these days,
Between splendor and despair,
Between darkness and light,
Between fury and flight,
I stumble along the path of fate:
Belligerent and sputtering.
God does not live,
In the worn stained carpet of churches,
Or in the deceiving tongues of serpents,
But in foxholes mired with subtle cries
Of green fledgling lives.
And still is the wind that carries the want of a mother’s embrace;
A face implanted in the bosom of chance and pace.
We sit beside each other,
Not able to hold hands:
Bros only by another name.
You said you’d wait for him,
And wait for him you did.
Until the man you waited for cease to live.
He came back with the same eyes that won your soul,
But those eyes held no soul.
And you wonder if he’ll look at you the same as he did before,
If he was the same man who told you you were beautiful the year before,
Beneath a night sky,
Fuming with passion and abandoned,
Embraced in a farewell entrapped by a kiss that would nourish the dry spell.
You danced in a bar filled with breaking hearts,
Before a morning of tearful departs.
You listed all the things he liked,
His favorite sports team,
His car magazines,
The way his scent lingered on pillow cases.
A tribute to the man you knew before
Tremblings and temptations,
Defaced promise and youth.
A year of sacrifice has become unglued,
By rogue expectations and delegations that bury the truth,
That you can’t love what you can’t refuse.
And time is a leaving train,
Fixed on a destination,
Not deterred by our own lateness,
As we run to catch steaming metal,
And medal in contemptment,
Won by a dream derailed from the clutches of commitment.
But you said,
Finally it’s released!
I have released my book of poems depicting war and the struggles of life after war. You can purchase for $2 either through PayPal or Credit via Payhip.
War Poems: Over There is a gut-punching journey into the soul of a soldier, with striking imagery relating war experiences in Iraq and the later acclimation to civilian life. It is a collection of deep and honest thoughts on war and its aftermath without glamour or flag-waving. Regret, suicide, love, lost, naïveté, destruction, are deeply woven within the candid poetry of Over There. If you have ever wanted to feel and discover what Veterans face both in the heat of battle and in the silence of suffering, Over There will open your heart.
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Sometimes I dont know how I make it day to day. It seems as though I am in a state of perpetual cognitive dissonance with only the briefest periods of respite. My few and infrequent sanctuaries of seeming normalcy only exascerbate the situation… I let them fool me just long enough to get comfortable, and then I am forced back into what I am starting to feel is my destiny. Dont get me wrong, the terrible things I have experienced didnt make me me. I always was. It isnt the storm that makes the ocean dangerous.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror everyday. The person I see makes my eyes burn, green webbed into a halo of golden brown, she said. The color of Thunderstorms and decay, she said. I dont recognize the face which stares back, warped and distorted in the shard of glass hanging from my wall. Somedays burning with an undying, unquenchable rage directed upon itself. Some days somber and solemn with dull, dead eyes. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of the person I once believed I was, buried under layers of unadressed issues and trauma, rising to the surface and desparetely grasping for air only to be pulled under again immediately.
We paint our insides black as the shadows ‘hind our flesh
And make all that we lack, the part of life that we forget
I am not sure if there is anything pure left inside of me. Am I nothing more than a jaded, bitter unapologetic asshole incapable of rising above my shortcomings? More often than not I find myself turning a blind eye to them or blatantly lying to myself, unconvincingly. Sometimes I feel the urge to destroy everything good in my life, its a sadistic self sabotage brought on by the fact that feeling good is so foreign. I react to love and happiness in my life like the immune system reacts to a foreign body or disease, relentlessly attack it until nothing remains. Tall, dark, desparetely unstable and charming, a recipe for tragedy.
Sometimes I feel like I’m close but I never get there,
Does it mean I’m a ghost if I’m still here?
In the end my self destructive tendencies win out. I have no outlet here, no escape and no sanctuary. My best friend was scattered over five square meters of Afghanistan and there was not a damn thing I could do to help him, no way for me to pay him back for keeping me sane over the last eight months. Nothing to do but succumb to the destructive demon inside of me and let him wreak havoc.
I dont want pity. I dont want understanding. I dont want advice. I dont want a second chance. I want everyone that I have ever wronged, everyone that I have ever hurt to confront me and let loose, bring me back to where I am most comfortable.