A Soldier's Portrait
I'm a piece of artwork
Hanging in a galleria
Where imperfection is awed
By perfection.
My carefully constructed lines
Shows a life of regret and hardship
Dark shadows shaded behind me
Reveals Evil travels with me.
On my shoulders are badges of a
Honor.
A patriot of war is
Such a burden to carry.
Light shadows underneath my eyes
Shows I suffer from insomnia.
Cold black eyes,match with a 1000
Yard stare reveals, I have seen death, touched death, experienced death.
Spectators notice the souls at the
Bottom of the portrait.
You can feel the life of lives snatching and tugging at my soul
Lack of color in my face tells
Of horror no longer of passion.
Some view me as a savior and guardian to my country.
Others I'm just a mere killer and
Murderer.
But I say to myself,
I am just a human not a hero.
I am just a survivor not a killer.
Heroes and soldiers carry pain
Deep inside their own spirit.
Pain eats at the soul like
White blood cells attacks infections.
The red lines scrolling down from the portrait is the blood tears that I cry
for the souls reaching up trying to
Drag me down to rest among them.
In my painting I have no peace.
Just pieces of me scattered among
The dead. I'm left alive but dead
And death drains me until I'm no more.
Copyright © Michael Pickings | Year Posted 2014
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