Maybe I'm still here?
Before I post this you should know I'm neurotic about this and in general. I'm a disabled combat veteran living with a traumatic brain injury, that is also an author. I'm not a poet but I'm envious of folks who are, so ya, that's why sharing this makes me cringe. One of my friends was trying to get me to write poems one night (because I read a lot of Bukowski) so I wrote some, well, rather awful ones.
Then she told me to just shut off my mind and take what I was doing a step further, and this came out.
Violence of action isn't in tune with my soul
It's formed about it.
It's caked on.
If I scraped it off at this point, it would indeed kill me.
Driven through with 7.62.
I want to believe that I am not a job I once was but it overflows in me, and I miss my brothers.
I'm still there, standing in fatigues, fatigued.
Waiting to get off on a Friday and drink cold skunky beer in the shower.
No amount of romancing the history will ever bring me back to that moment.
Some days I want to cut off my face.
Posted Apr 27, 2018, 3:27 AM UTC · edited