Poetry Book 1

Dear Home

Dear Home:

War is a scary thing. It takes souls and drops bodies, faster than a grown man can fall to his knees in the mud and cry for it all to be over.

I didn't think it would be like this: guns firing, bombs dropping, men screaming. Nobody sleeps in the trenches, as much as sleep tries to make them; everybody's got one eye open. Paranoia seems to be as rough to get rid of as the common cold. As revolting as it is, we hug our rifles to feel safe, then shiver and shove the barrel to the side when we realize we're hugging Death.

War shows you what blood is supposed to look like, not that anybody asked. Bullets and bombs take the insides out, and sometimes puts the outsides in. I've learned I don't like how warm blood feels when you're trying to stop a wound from leaking. It's almost like the warmer it is, the quicker Death comes to collect.

There's never leave out here. And when there is, it means you're going to die. Maybe that's what we all want: not death, exactly, not the pain, but peace. A stop to all of this chaos and bloodshed. We fight in a pointless war, lose so many souls, and where do we end up? We don't advance in anything except a body count. And heartache. Heartache always comes with it.

As hard as it is, and terrifying as it seems, we can't stop. We want to, but it's like that's not an option; like the only way out of this sick and twisted war is to fight to the death – doesn't matter who's death, either.

I'll make it home soon, I promise. Just think of me happy, and I'll always be there.

Love,

Your son from war