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Poem

12 o'clock midnight the president speaks,
"We are at war, we strive to free Kuwait"

My troops and I were playing cards,
Shortly before we heard that alarm.
We picked up the table and tossed it to the ground
For we did not know where we would be bound.

At home our families sit,
Praying for us not to get hit.
Bullets go flying over our heads,
Just hoping one does no hit me and make me dead.

I sit and I watch my caravan get struck,
An RPG just hit the lead truck.
It’s a desert here,
Nowhere to hide--we can always be detected.

So many of them,
So little of us.
When or when, do I get to cry?

I watched in horror,
Just the other day.
As my battle buddy,
Got in the way.

A bullet hit him;
Square in the chest,
I told him to always
wear his flack vest.

He did not listen;
He lies there to die.
When or when, do I get to cry?

I fight for freedom,
I fight with pride.
I give up my life,
 but I still need to cry.

In the heat of the moment,
I rush in that building--
trained to kill at a moment’s whim.
I scream, "We bring you no harm",
yet when I walk in,
there's a baby left to starve.

When does a Soldier get to cry,
They are trained to kill and lie.
With all the misery and pain they see,
Crying is something that doesn't come easy.

Let the soldier come home today,
To a family that understands,
Let the soldier cry,
Let the soldier cry!

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