Theres a time in your life when everything makes sense, or at least you think so. Your people are attacked and your blood boils. You only wanna do what is right, and in that moment, all you really wanna to do is fight….
You are American! We are a fierce bunch!
But war is hell.
You find yourself knee deep in garbage and shit, pointing weapons at strangers and wondering, “which ones want me dead?”
Riding in metal boxes and, at best, it’s 110. You’re praying for rain. But, of course, you get sand. You’re thinking this shit sucks. This shit ain’t even for the birds, it’s so bad.
The ground ahead erupts like a volcano, the ground beneath you is violently shaken. Everyone’s looking around, familiar shock visible in their faces.
And you move.
The radios come to life. “Battalion will be by your side” All you have to do is be patient. But patience is far from your mind as the bloodied bodies of your brothers lay frozen in time on some sandy sidewalk. Minutes seem like years, and civilians would expect there to be a lot of fear, but there is none. Only rage. And that rage carries on.
You come home and everyday is a battle. Your body is whole, tough even. How can your mind be so fragile? You know you’re not weak, but it’s so hard to handle even the slightest of things, something no-hassle. You’re pulled and you’re prodded and discarded like some dead animal.
So that rage carries on.
At some point, you stop fighting and start searching frantically for peace. Under every rock, in every crevice, war is all you see. You run and you run…and you run
And inevitably you fall to your knees
tired, battered, and broken. Torn at the seams.
With the last of your energy, you raise your head just enough to see
All the people you run from while war haunts your dreams…
But, still… that rage carries on…