Casualty: a victim of an awful event.
Often times, known as a dead person.
It seems as though, we've become desensitized.
Especially when it's,
Not a parent,
A friend,
Or a spouse.
We make heroes of those who lace up their boots, and take the enemy’s bullet abroad.
We see the news stories,
And even read about it in our history books.
But what if we're taking society’s bullets everyday?
We walk around with no helmet—
No bulletproof vest.
So who's to say we arent heroes?
We trudge through each day,
Facing fire,
With no back up.
"Us against the world!"
Never sounded so deserted.
But in war, we know the enemy.
Now, the enemy wears our colors.
How do we know which side to take?
When there is no line to dictate sides.
When the enemy could in fact,
Be a friend,
Or a family memeber.
Tell me, who will tell of our heroic tales?
About being an open target, in a world,
Surrounded by snipers.
Where are our memorials?
The memorials for the fallen, the beaten, the survivors--
And the causalties.
I think we are warriors, too.
Only, our purple hearts aren't literal,
They're battle scars--
Both physical,
And the ones that only last as memories.
But who will recognize our fight?
Casualty: often, a dead person.
As in all wars,
Not everyone can make it out alive.
What happens when we become--
A casualty of society?
We are the heroes, too.
And we aren't dead--
Yet.
YOU ARE READING
ephemeral life.
Teen FictionLaney is your average seventeen year old girl. She's smart, pretty, and has even dealt with her fair share of bullying. She's also extremely awkward--so bad, that she cannot even talk to people in real life. Behind the computer screen, though, tha...
