The Poet of the War

If I were a poet-

I would have painted you with wings

to travel all bright places;

to see the colors of the wind.

If I were a poet-

I would have given you an eye

for beauty and perfection;

freedom I won’t deny.

If I were a poet-

the heart I would have defined.

You would see of gentlest affection;

you would know love when it was said.

But you see I was no poet-

with all their ideology.

And if I were some poet

I’d be the shadow you won’t see.

Cause if I were some poet-

I won’t tell you of flattery.

The world is full of mockery

And sometimes life could get real ugly.

No, I couldn’t be a hypocrite-

Who is blinded by the bliss.

Do you know of violence?

Do you hear the screams for peace?

I would tell you of the story-

Of little girls out the street,

wearing none but tattered clothing

and pity is all they get.

I would talk of little boys-

breaking in houses and stores

so as to fill their rumbling stomachs

while the world’s reduced to black.

If the air smells of plutonium-

could we give nothing more than sympathy?

Where would humanity stand

At the question of morality?

I would tell you of great mean-

whose lust for power gave us pain.

I’d tell you of real patriots:

unnoticed men whose death was put to vain.

No, I couldn’t just be a voice-

who would lull you into dreams.

Even smiles have it’s colors;

laughter is born from tears.

I am no poet-

and I am indeed no great mind.

I couldn’t discuss things difficult to grasp.

My plea is of the heart.

I could merely be that small voice-

trying to make you feel

of the strength the week ones possess;

of great men’s Achilles’s heel.

I am but a voice-

and this I tell you blandly:

You can never soar  the heights of beauty

without swimming the depths of pain.

Until at last the bullets hit me-

and take away my sanity,

I’d deny being some poet

for this I do believe:

I am no kind of poet-

or maybe I thought I was.

But no… I am just a soldier;

A poet made by war.

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