What War Has Done to Me

This an invented piece about a young child's life during times of war.

There’s a sound so bold, I want to flee, to see another course of humanity.

I shrivel in despair as I watch my only other relative collapse into thin air.

No gold mine can compete in this strange sense of logic.

I have seen so many bullets, a simple child should not see.

“Praise the heavens,” I have heard, but what do these three words mean?

I am no longer the naïve child I used to be and take nothing for granted you see.

I am strong and fierce, the two characteristics of the survivor in me.

These surrounding people are no better than a slice of cheese.

Where can I find worthy comrades? Oh, I plead.

I am standing on a puddle of blood; it’s glossy and puny, yet so large than the sea.

It speaks words too strong to compete, one might call destiny.

I did not hurt these bodies, indeed, but I witnessed a slaughter so cryptic and deep.

I am war, and so are they. Together we stand for different beliefs, and so we fall simultaneously.

 

In battle one wins and one loses, you see, but that is a lie I guarantee.

A simple fight has a winner and loser, as does an argument of complex deceit.

No, that is false in a higher degree.

Battles, fights and arguments are never won as previously seen.

There is no such thing as a winner, oh please. In war we all tend to be flees.

As humans, we lose in war no matter the deed. It is as simple as can be.

I am still standing on a puddle of blood. It is hard to maneuver in such a facet.

My only relative, my brother is gone. He will live in a better place than this inopportunity.

I am alone with nothing but me, so I drag my tiresome feet to find a comrade, at least.

Time is against me, I believe. I need some water to continue my quest of eternity.

It has been days since I last saw a human being. I have been stuck in between trees.

The forest surrounds me; at least there are no enemies.

I am at peace, or as far as I can be here in this land that was meant to be tranquility.

 

I taste blood in between my teeth, so I awaken to see.

There is no one but me and a whole bunch of mosquitoes angry at me.

I figured this life is all about me, since I am the only one who can be me.

I use the word me so much that I grew to suppose my last thought is in fact reality.

I rise from the ground as I slept so uncomfortably and aim to the sky like an angel with flight.

Nothing occurs, as I was doomed to be part of the ground and not the sky of crystal machines.

I flash forward a few years of me and came to see a whole lot of misery.

I am surrounded by comrades I found majestically, a town of folklore I presume it to be.

The battles and sides we were forced to be a part of incinerated to fast to be seen.

According to the comrades, we won the war and so we live peacefully.

I’ve told them the truth that we may have “won”,

But, what is in winning when we lost so much more?

I grab hold of a journal and begin to write like Anne Frank and John Beverly Robinson.

Author's Note

What do you think about this poem? Any feedback would be awesome.