He jerks and sits up in his bed, with his big hands he rubs his face, slowly remembering hes in his own place.
On the nightstand he keeps his drink, he takes a big swig so he dost have to think.
His big feet hit the cold bare floor.
He stands and heads for that closet door.
He's done this a thousand times before, but he keeps coming back for more, hoping that soon it will be perfectly clear, and he won't need all the pills and beer.
He screws in the bare bald and shields his eyes, praying to god that this time he won't cry.
Then he spots it way back in the back, his legs feel like rubber, his big frame goes slack.
He falls down in front of the big brown box, blows dust off the top and fumbles with the lock.
He opens the lid and reaches inside, his fingers grazed the uniform he used to wear in pride, but now he angrily pushes it aside.
You see what he's looking for, is buried underneath, he finally finds it and breaths a sigh of relief.
He's holding a photo of his buddies and him, Jack, John, Mike and Jim.
They all look happy in the snapshot, but in war these guys gave it all they got.
Next he pulls out four ID tags, he holds them tight and gets very mad.
Then he shouts up to god as loud as he can,
"WHY DID THEY DIE FIGHTING FOR THAT USELESS LAND AND WHY DID YOU SEND ME HOME WITHOUT A SCRATCH, WHEN YOU TOOK ALL MY BUDDIES IN THAT MINE FIELD PATCH; AND WE DIDN'T EVEN WIN THE WAR, OH MY GOD WHAT WE'RE WE FIGHTING FOR?"
Now their just names in a book, was it worth all the lives it took?
PTSD is what the doc's say, I don't think I can live this way.
Wrote by Judy C.F. Hughes
March 2012
YOU ARE READING
Wars Aftermath
PoetryA mans suffering. This is a poem my Grandmother wrote in march 2012. She was once in the Army. She is a very proud Veteran.
