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Poem
Cold, lonely, long nights
endless hours before dawn.
The flickering candle in the night,
brings up yawn after yawn.
I know I want some sleep
but the hill I'm climbing is steep.
Each and every limb of my body,
creaking, screaming, protesting,
composed into an ill-tuned melody.
Dejected, I'm down, kneeling.
Every night seeing same nightmares,
every day plagued with scares.
People see me covered in blood stains,
little do they know, I too have aches and 
pains.
The only music is the gunfire sound,
and I dance when the bullets pound.
How long can I hold on,
now my patience has gone.
I'm getting on the next bus
because
I wanna go home for Christmas.

Memories of me and her
lying beside the fireplace.
It's a wet, windy December,
everything moving at slow pace.
Two lovers in a tight embrace,
my eyes glued to her face.
Wishing the night can stay forever,
and these moments leave us never.
No words spoken at all,
her kiss just says it all.
I wanna live that life again,
leave the stench of dust and drain.
Sick and tired of bombs and tanks,
can't bear the same silly pranks.
I wanna ditch the ugly uniform,
I've had enough of this storm.
Now I will leave all this fuss
because
I wanna go home for Christmas.

I've killed humans like chickens,
after every slaying my blood thickens.
Corpses are lying all around me,
these bloody scenes no longer astound 
me.
I know from history that war never ends,
I dread soon I will be left with no friends.
My mom is crying every hour of the day,
and my dad's hair have all turned grey.
I hear my kid is living like an orphan,
and my once-bubbly wife is now quiet as 
a nun.
I wish someone could stop this war,
end the game of blood and gore.
We've seen countries amBushed, many 
others under attacks,
Will we ever stop rulers from being 
maniacs?
I'm not waiting for answers
because
I wanna go home for Christmas.

One day I will be lying dead in a ditch.
Those in authority will play the role of an 
ostrich.
A memorial will be erected long after I die.
My wife will receive my medal and a 
shoulder to cry.
Her tears will be dried but the scars will 
remain.
Someone will replace me on some 
unknown terrain.
And if I survive I will come back with 
PTSD, 
Or lying helplessly on the bed as an 
amputee.
But before all this happens,
I'm calling the missus
because
I wanna go home for Christmas.
I'll tell her
"Honey, I'm coming home for Christmas,
Never gonna go back to the trenches"

PTSD: Post traumatic stress disorder
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