HOW IRONIC
they suggested i was one of the lucky ones
because i had survived the encounter still breathing
but years later my heart is still bleeding and my soul is still grieving
in the desert, just what did they do to Miss Mary’s baby boy
now they say it’s post traumatic stress disorder
PTSD – those are the letters they use to describe me
because the silence of war still rings in my ear
years later, loud and clear
i’m tortured, because after hearing a dead man’s last scream
you can no longer return to being that innocent teen
there are no more innocent places in my heart
the keys to my emotions are gone
because i know morally what i was doing was wrong
how do we know our final days, our final words
what were they thinking before the last moments of their lives occurred
i mean it’s a strange feeling being on foreign soil
without a foreign person in sight
after what we did last night
i squeezed triggers and reloaded as things exploded
they said it was patriotic
now they tell me I’m psychotic
how ironic
i squeeze my eyes tight, trying to bring my memories closer
but the negative is damaged due to overexposure
i’m unable to alter or photoshop these images
they’re scarred in my mind and become delusions
that keep me in seclusion
i’m traumatized by the cruel acts before my eyes
and sometimes I’m unaware that I’m not still there
i’m still struggling with all the dead kids
trying to understand why
why sarge shot that lady in the back of her head
and he got medals for it
but my soul has never been settled for it
and there are no isolated or random acts in war
the ones you murder today will torment your tomorrows
the children’s screams and tears
still burn my eyes and ears
as misguided men lead guided missiles
as scared teens tote M16s
and cowards clutch their 45 pistols
they truly ruined some good sons
with their bad, twisted logic, misguided lessons and loaded guns
now daily i feel the agony i caused and endured
it greets me and defeats me before i can leave my own front door
my world is flipped
i’m unable to right this ship
my days go to nights, wrongs from rights
to an empty life, another ex-wife
the peace I’m searching for eludes me
gun in my waistband or within reach of my night stand usually
and at times God still refuses to speak to me
he’s still angered by the foul deeds I’ve done
he’s too ashamed to call me his son
he still refuses to speak to me
and i remember when he glared at me with those angry eyes
i’ll never forget, i knew exactly what he meant
they had no weapon
they were no threat
we could have just let them walk away
but instead he yells Fire and we empty our clips
just more bodies buried in the sand
now the Devil grins as the guns are put down and the war ends
for he knows the real war, the war in your mind
is ready to begin
he knows of the bad days and the storms to come
demons from yesterday’s deaths
become tomorrow’s nightmares and flashbacks
and they’re real and i can feel them like the scar on my arm
where they shot us up with that anthrax
they can’t believe what we received
i still feel it in my bones deep
i get bad sleep
as soon as i drift off I’m awoke
i smell smoke, gasping for air, unable to breathe
i squeezed triggers
they said it was patriotic
now my doctor tells me I’m psychotic
how ironic
i struggle to put the pieces of my life back together again
just to by my mommy’s baby boy, a father to my son, my brother’s twin
but thirty days later I’m all broken again
morally corrupt, and i pay the price
fear, insomnia, nightmares at night
to live in the shadows of your own life
this is what happens when you take innocent life
i squeezed triggers
they said it was patriotic
now they tell me I’m psychotic
how ironic
