I am afraid,
For there is a war waging in my head
And I can see the weapons in the warriors hands
And they are charging at each other,
Their battle cries so loud
That I have to cover my ears
And lie in dark rooms.
They are so unforgiving
And the Noman's land
Is uneven;
the fighters die crossing it
When they fall.
Gun blasts,
And there is blood.
Oh so vivid and bright,
On my hands, in my head, in my blood shot eyes and mangled in my hair.
I shout for a ceasefire
But through the night they battle,
Both wanting more power.
A rest at last.
And in the trenches they lie
And breathe shallowly
To the sound of each other's wounded cries.
I can breathe.
Oh no.
A gun wound to another man's head;
Blow his brains out
And mine too.
It seems I am in the firing line.
I hold my hands up in peaceful surrender,
Oh what a coward...
My corpse lies in a mass grave
Until the armies cross countries
And invade another head.
Give it up
And go home
But there is no pride or propriety
In ending wars,
For warriors are just men
without wounds on infantile bodies.
-by holly boyd
YOU ARE READING
Words We Cannot Speak
PoetryPoems; Woe and hope, love and despair Poems mend us, they repair. Broken souls mixed with broken minds, Poems teach us what it is to be alive. They offer thoughts to inspire. They give us hope to aspire, They answer unanswerable questions They offer...
