Poetry

Poppy seeds

When we mourn, we mourn silently
Our heads dropped
Hands clasped together, behind out backs

Jack had fallen where he stood, gun in hand, pointed limply at the enemy that shot him
We stayed behind the trenches and watched how each bullet poked holes through him
As if he was a piece of paper, sliced open by the teeth of dogs
The shooting had ceased after a while
The blood remaining in his body soaked through into the ground
We buried him where he had stood, where he had fallen
Dug up a hole and lowered his previously decaying body into it
He was finally at peace
I stared into his eyes, dead of any light as we shoveled wet mud onto him

Over and over and over again we did this to our comrades

Buried them where they stood
Buried them where they fell
But we never found any of them again
We had already moved past their makeshift graves
Powered by the need to defeat the “enemy”
Who had hurled bombs our way, pieces of shrapnel exploding into the terrain behind us

By the time the war had finally finished
By the time we returned to each respective grave
We couldn’t find them
Their limbs lay dispersed from their body
Like poppy seeds
Scattered across no mans land
So, we left their parts on foreign soil and powered forward

When we mourn, we mourn silently
We mourn at an empty grave, an empty tomb
Matured poppies alive on the surface of our hearts
Hands clasped behind our backs
Reading a muted prayer to God for us to find them

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Poetry

When God happens

When God happens we are left with a myriad of excuses escaping mouths without mourning. People grieving for their loved ones hidden under lands covered in sand and sweat. Soldiers running from point A to B without remembering that their actions amount to very little, but the construction of loathing within a new generations mind. New excuses are made. Filled with the hatred of the young, fueled by the hatred of the old. Fear is so easily mistaken for bravery.

New soldiers arrive. Eager to destroy others without the true realisation they are killing people. Not just the men that the bullets that are used to tear through the flesh but the children of these men. The wives and mothers of these men. The friends of these men. When they kill one, they kill many.

They kill so many.

Uncategorized

Soldiers

I never fully understood why there were men who were homeless on the street that had fought in wars. I didn’t understand it because I thought “these people are probably more skilled than I am. They should be able to get a job.” As a child walking by, I would dig into my pockets and give them everything I had. Granted, I only had pennies. Very little. But I had figured, as a child, that giving them my little everything was much better than giving them absolutely nothing. And I had understood that I didn’t really need sweets from a shop. If I really wanted something, I could always get it another day.

But yeah, I never really understood why these ex-soldiers could never get a job. I almost still don’t understand it. Though, I do want to and I definitely try to.

And I figure, it may be because of all the trauma they have been through. I can hardly keep going with the childhood trauma that weighs heavily on my mind from time to time. Just imagining all the events that they may have witnessed makes me understand why. Because they were able to understand the difference between right and wrong. There was no confusion. And things like that, effect grown-ups more than they do children, in my opinion.

But I still can’t completely understand it. It can’t be just because of trauma, can it? Or maybe it can? Maybe it’s the lack of skills? Maybe it’s the hard job market out there? But like I said, they seem skilled to me. But I could possibly type it into google and find out. But meh, these are just thoughts which are bouncing deep in my head upon waking from a dream about the military and torture and blah, blah, blah.

I notice that this may be coming off insensitive and I generally hate being insensitive. But I do wonder, sometimes. Because if I knew fully what it was, maybe I could help them. Because they’re really nice people. Well, the guy I talked to anyway. The guy on the street, that was an ex-soldier, which had fought in a war, was a passionate speaker. About what, you ask? I’m not sure anymore. I was a kid and my mother would always shoo me along once I stopped. But he seemed very friendly, very well driven. That’s why I find it unfair he could never find a job. Because he’s seemed amazing. And someone told me while interviewing for a gliding scholarship, that sometimes sheer passion can be an appropriate substitute for experience.

Hm, I should also probably mention I started reading Slaughterhouse-Five as well. Just to give a little bit more context to my spiralling thoughts about war and soldiers.

At the end of the day, they should be helped. By who? By everyone. Any little will help. Any type of change which will benefit them and can, sometimes, be enough.

I’m not very good at ending these things but yeah…

Nakedstreetkid out! 🙂 x