The Soldier

I am molded, made to kill.

Rough and tough.

Strong and buff.

Turned cold and distant

by hours of training.


Sir! Yes, Sir!

The sheets are changed.

The racks are made.

The barracks are clean.


Cold unfeeling metal

reasts heavy in my hands.

I have the power to choose,

with this gun, who dies and who lives.

The lot I have condemed 

haunt my once pleasent dreams.

This life is lonely, empty and cold.


Sir! Yes, Sir!

The boots are buffed.

The helmets polished.

The tanks are washed.


A picture of my love lays under my pillow

as memories calm my senses.

That last summer with her...

It's so hard to let go.

Stay strong my love, I'll be home soon.


Sir! Yes, Sir!

The bullets were fired.

The freedom has been preserved.

The war has been won.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741