Wounded Solider

Sun, 07/27/2014 - 18:28 -- geeru

Stand tall, shoulders back, salute.

Piercing blues that gaze into the distance,

hiding fears only you know.

Turning fears into tears for

those who can’t shed them anymore.

Pretend the water from your eyes

don’t form teardrops but lullabies.

Tell the nurse you’re

a fighter,

wish you were a firefighter,

because at least the smoke

would be from fire than from bombs,

bombs strapped to innocent children

who haven’t had a life to live,

or live or live free.

Pretend the dog tags around your

neck are a tiffany necklace, not

your death certificate.

Tell the doctor you tolerate

large amounts of pain,

pain you’ve measured by the

number of men and women you’ve

seen die.

You’ve lost count.


Muscle memory: stand tall, Shoulders back,


Salute the parents of the fallen solider,

your brother in war,

your friend,

father of two little girls,

they’ve barely called daddy.

At ages two and four,

you will take them for ice cream.

Pretend like the sun shines on 

patches of rose buds 

because they deserve it.

Tell their mother that you will

be there if she needs you. 

Tell their mother that he 

saved your life.

Tell their mother he was brave

and the loss of your arm

can never compare to the loss of 

her husband,

their father,

your friend.

Tell her you know 

he loved her.


Need to talk?

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