I'm a writer,
Not a fighter,
What the hell am I doing here,
I left behind,
My state of mind,
And everyone who I held dear,
Now here I am,
A sword in hand,
Fighting for a cause not mine,
Because they damn,
A foreign land,
For the things they hold divine,
The papers speak,
Giving critique,
With propaganda by their side,
And preachers pray,
What do they say,
To the score of those who died,
Our leaders boast,
A victory toast,
When they hear of the demise,
Yet the blood spilt,
Leaves me with guilt,
As it will always stain my eyes.
