A Hero


My first war,
was fought with fists,
and racial slurs.
I loved the feeling of my first fight,
Blood and spit flew,
Tears and sweat fell,
Oh, how alive I’d felt.
There was a real war going on,
I could go fight.
I thought I could do it,
I’d done it before,
But this was a different type of war.
They gave me a gun,
They told me to shoot.
We broke into houses,
We took away men.
Men with families,
Children and friends.
Yet still we
Took them away.
The men,
We beat them,
and spit in their hands.
No longer did fighting
Seem so cool.
I wondered if my dad would be proud of me now?
His son,
A hero,
That’s not how it felt.
The last war I fought,
Was not with man.
It was internal,
A war with myself.
I screamed and I cried,
A hero I was,
Spilling blood,
This time it was mine.
I hated my life,
The time I had spent,
Taking innocent lives,
Disguised as a soldier.
I looked in the mirror,
I saw pieces of a broken man.
To everyone else,
I was a hero.
Our definitions must be different.

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