No Longer Wanted
Blinded by my tears
as i hang my head in shame
i look around to hate someone
but im the one to blame
The rage inside my body
makes me edgy and full of fire
my limbs shake and my teeth grind
as i watch my world expire
no one wants to see this
its a demon, no ones friend
it destroys everyone around you
and brings your happiness to an end
No one wants you around anymore
your input no longer required
your 1250* and heart handed in
for you my useless airman are medically retired
*1250 is the old name for the RAF military ID card.
Sunday 30 June 2013
Saturday 22 June 2013
Terminal Glory (poetry)
***WARNING**** This piece of material contains references to suicide.
Terminal Glory
No one can help, no one understands,
the damage he does with his very own hands.
The self-torturing mind that destroys his soul;
not staying alive another day is this soldiers only goal.
This six-foot tall soldier, so outwardly strong,
his friends see only what he show's; but how they are wrong.
Coward he screams to the target at his front,
his fists tightens as he punches the mirror, with a grunt.
The blood drips off his hand, cut and bare,
his reflection no longer but the judgement still there.
Shards on the floor like a magnet to metal,
he clutches them with need, this could be fatal.
Free at last as he breathes his last air,
as he guided it through his skin, the release was there.
The soldier at rest, no more pain or torment,
his brothers in arms bow their heads at his final lament.
PTSD, the boffins labelled it well,
he'd rather have been dead than to live in his hell.
Disguised his pain with their shameful branding,
what it showed, Doctor; is that you had no understanding.
He wished he was the one butchered in the sand,
to absorb the blast from the bastards in Helmand.
His last bluey he claimed, "It should have been me."
he didn’t need the laudable glory; just for someone to agree.
The guilt he felt, he could breathe no longer,
his time was borrowed, his need for justice got stronger.
His cries often heard from high above in heaven,
by those he left who loved him who had to carry on living.
Terminal Glory
No one can help, no one understands,
the damage he does with his very own hands.
The self-torturing mind that destroys his soul;
not staying alive another day is this soldiers only goal.
This six-foot tall soldier, so outwardly strong,
his friends see only what he show's; but how they are wrong.
Coward he screams to the target at his front,
his fists tightens as he punches the mirror, with a grunt.
The blood drips off his hand, cut and bare,
his reflection no longer but the judgement still there.
Shards on the floor like a magnet to metal,
he clutches them with need, this could be fatal.
Free at last as he breathes his last air,
as he guided it through his skin, the release was there.
The soldier at rest, no more pain or torment,
his brothers in arms bow their heads at his final lament.
PTSD, the boffins labelled it well,
he'd rather have been dead than to live in his hell.
Disguised his pain with their shameful branding,
what it showed, Doctor; is that you had no understanding.
He wished he was the one butchered in the sand,
to absorb the blast from the bastards in Helmand.
His last bluey he claimed, "It should have been me."
he didn’t need the laudable glory; just for someone to agree.
The guilt he felt, he could breathe no longer,
his time was borrowed, his need for justice got stronger.
His cries often heard from high above in heaven,
by those he left who loved him who had to carry on living.
Saturday 4 May 2013
The Silent Soldier
The
Silent Soldier
Once a six foot strong warrior, hero, a
fighter.
Now a frail old man- three stone lighter.
His fire has cooled, his passion no more
looks sixty-five, barely a day past forty-four.
But the years have been tough since the start
of the war,
tortured minds, broken men, the sights that he
saw.
Three times he returned to that wretched place
and each time he came back, by the glory of
grace.
But the last time he lost his leg at the knee,
wrong place, wrong time, damn IED.
Save this soldier, save his soul at best;
that was the prayer he heard as he lay at rest.
It was the padre‘s words, as he read his last
right,
this wasn't the end, he had one final fight.
Against the odds placed against him to breathe
by himself,
he never gave up, he fought to full health.
Being mobile at last, the recovery wasn’t too
long,
he thought he had won his biggest battle, boy
was he wrong.
His greatest challenge was yet to be explored,
the images and sounds in his head could no
longer be ignored.
What he show's to the world is courage and
vigour,
but on the inside he's destroyed, his tears
getting bigger.
The pain, the memories, the flashbacks and what
he dreams,
are all part of who he is now, he can still
hear the screams.
The silent soldier too proud to talk about his
sorrow,
he thinks time time alone is a healer, awaiting
another tomorrow.
Now he's left with shattered dreams and a
broken heart,
no job, no home, no wife, no life or love to restart.
He stands upright, chest out, head high at the
memorial parade,
to the world he looks proud, but inside,
abandoned and betrayed.
With his beret on his head and his medals on
his chest,
feeling undervalued and a burden, not one of
the Queens best.
This is the reality of a never ending war,
the lost limbs, scars and breaks are what we
see, but there's more;
the pain on the inside the deep scars on the
heart that'll never heal,
just get worse over time, silently, that's the
biggest deal.
Thursday 27 September 2012
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