Leaded ink

An antiwar poem

Ah those were the days,
     filled with purpose and intent,
     a defined goal,
     no ambiguity —
Mission Accomplished after all —
     so the banner said.

But oh, to come home
     to the mundane,
     the bills and soccer games,
to hungry children who just ate,
     and nothing for dinner, 
          just the plate.

Life was simpler then
and the stakes were higher —
     no IEDs on the running toilet,
     no snipers by the 
          flickering light,
     no suicide bombers 
          at the grocery store.

Finally alone, 
     the voices are too loud,
     the playback is too fast,
     we've lost control.
We point the gun at ourselves
     and ask if the bullet 
     will miss this time
     like it did the last —
so lucky to be alive.

let's find out!




The safety was on —
     a rookie mistake.

Magazine ejects,
slide pulls back,
the unspent round 
     spins skyward —
a small thing of lead and brass.
We catch it
     and now must 
     wash our hands —
lead is bad for us, 
     dontcha know.

We can cry now, 
     no one will see us.
We can let it all out, 
     pitiful and uncontrolled,
sobbing, 
     broken —
almost.

We are still in the fight —
war for our souls,
the souls of those who love us
and hug us when they 
     walk through the door —
the souls of those with 
     rounds still in the chamber.

The scar will not go away,
     but it can grow smaller,
when we learn to love ourselves —
     again.

Pick up the barrel,
     fill it with ink,
let it spill, violently on the page —
     a bloodletting.
When the cartridge runs dry,
     fill the pen again,
          and again and
     again.

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Discussion.

This poem deals with suicide, specifically suicide among veterans who fought in the “Global War on Terrorism.” Which, I’m not sure is actually over or not.

I refuse to put a warning of any kind on this. There’s no warning about sending troops overseas, no warning when jets fly over stadiums, no warnings for hollywood blockbusters that glorify the sacrifices of war. Why do we need to provide a warning only after veterans have returned home and not before they go?

I won’t provide a hotline number either — I know I would never call one.

My advice is if you struggle, or have struggled, and are reading this, try to find the hope I can only try to show at the end. Talk to someone.

And I pray that you forget to disengage the safety. (Noting of course that modern stryker fire pistols don’t have a safety, but let’s just roll with the safety metaphor).