Poetry of the Forgotten Misfits

The Man on the Park Bench

There is a man

who sits on the bench

every day.

He can think only of sand,

of the water's quench

as it runs down his throat.

'tell me', says he.

'tell me where i am.'

but i cannot answer him,

for he and i are 

in two different worlds.

He is frozen, 

enprisoned,

by the sand.

the desert was hot, 

so they say.

he went for days 

without a friend.

without hope.

His clothes were heavy

the gun over his shoulder

his only protection.

Many say he was hurt, 

and forgotten.

Others say he 

will never be the same.

We all can see 

the man on the park bench,

afraid of the birds.

'You are home.' 

I tell him.

'Where your family is.'

He's old enough to go to war,

but young enough to be scarred.

But the scars and fears remain.

no matter how i try

to tell him he is no 

longer there

He screams,

the machine guns blazing 

in his mind.

he doesnt know that he is safe.

But i will be there,

when he is afraid that 

he is truely alone.

Not only does he beg for 

a friend, 

but he doesnt even see me.

I am here, 

and when he realizes 

that he is not alone,

I will be the first

to embrace him.

to love him.

For he is 

my soldier.

my man.

The scars dont scare me,

the shouts dont faze me.

I am here for him.

no matter what.

So if you see

the man on the park bench,

all alone.

Do not worry. 

For i am on my way.

and we can be friends together.

Caring for the 

man on the park bench.