Why do I bleed?
Why, to sow the seed
Unto these fertile grounds;
But not to the land of which I am bound.

My loyalty is a virtue to some
"I'm so proud of him," says my mum.
But to the survivor whose wounds burn past his skin,
His pride is hidden in a cracked bottle of gin.

Dead parents are lining the streets –
Brothers, sisters, lovers; all with flat heartbeats.
Let freedom ring loud and clear
To mask the cries of anguish and fear.

America the free, America the brave
America the greedy, America the mass grave.
War has taught me much
But most of all, how to use a crutch.

I remember very little about my service –
Only that I felt sickeningly nervous,
Holding my military rifle in one hand
My innocence in the other - drop one, they demand.

C*** and load boys, light em up, they said.
As if war was merely a game in our heads.
Well, I did as I was told
The gun felt ice cold.

Our enemies crested the hill
And for a moment, everything was still.
A shot was fired without consent –
My heart stopped, but I had no time to repent.

I shared the terror in my platoon's eyes.
We surged forward as one; a swarm of flies,
Battling enemy roaches with guns.
It was hard to believe they were someone's sons.

I lasted about five minutes before I fell
My leg was full of holes and my ankle began to swell.
My comrade dragged me behind a broken bus
Out of the line of fire, which a plus.

He left and I sat there, listening to their screams
Which to this day, still haunt my dreams.
When it was over, the silence reverberated
Off the hill and dead bodies I had created.

Three hours I sat in that goddamn field
Cowering from death behind my broken shield.
Eventually I was found by some allies
They told me I was alone and alive, to my surprise.

Shipped home; then allowed to leave the hospital
But after months of rehab, I had become brittle.
The day I limped into my home,
I was diagnosed with PTSD syndrome.

That because my leg was gone,
I had become withdrawn.
My friends were all dead
And at night I heard gunshots in my head.

So no, mum, don't be proud of me;
In my eyes, I never lived past thirty.
Now I spend my days in bitter regret
Writing all about America, the true enemy threat.