The Soldier
I am molded, made to kill.
Rough and tough.
Strong and buff.
Turned cold and distant
by hours of training.
Sir! Yes, Sir!
The sheets are changed.
The racks are made.
The barracks are clean.
Cold unfeeling metal
reasts heavy in my hands.
I have the power to choose,
with this gun, who dies and who lives.
The lot I have condemed
haunt my once pleasent dreams.
This life is lonely, empty and cold.
Sir! Yes, Sir!
The boots are buffed.
The helmets polished.
The tanks are washed.
A picture of my love lays under my pillow
as memories calm my senses.
That last summer with her...
It's so hard to let go.
Stay strong my love, I'll be home soon.
Sir! Yes, Sir!
The bullets were fired.
The freedom has been preserved.
The war has been won.
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
lamickity
I'm a 5 foot senior in high school. I love comic books, sci-fi, and really anything geeky like that. My boyfriend of 2+ years is a Marine and I can't wait for him to come home from job training. I have a brother with Down Syndrome and I love volunteering to work with children like him.
View all poems →Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.