In Afghanistan

He was dreaming of his youngest daughter who still slept in his arms at days when thunder and darkness consumed the sky. Who would wrap her tiny arms around her father's neck and cry, to remind him that this day would maybe be their last goodbye.

But the fighting outside got much to heavy and they took him from the ward. So as he said his final prayers to the one and only lord, They pulled him out and put him right up front to board, the fallen, the sick, and those who couldn't take it anymore.

There was little he could do there except clear away the lost blood, hold severed limbs, which made our poor hero very Grimm, he handed equipment to nurses and tried not to get rattled as soldiers were baffled, straight in live battle.

His pain cold and selfish, he felt quite small, his reality insignificant, compared to those who fall. Our hero left broken, his comrades laid in sacks; An unannounced father, and a son never coming back. A war fought with nothing gained, a war with lives lost so inhumane.

The sand once brown, now turned around, drenched in red from the lifeless bodies bled. His heart fighting with his head; they all said that God was on his side. That when he killed it was justified.

But what he felt for the war was only bad, for all his friends were sent home in body bags. They told him be strong, be mean, he's not a man, he's a killing machine. Their child at home will scream and cry, for they won't understand the reason why.

He couldn't hide what was beneath; These were the days one could say that even the sky had teeth.

Rest In Peace to those who fought

I Regret Everything

What if, the guy from math class; You know the one. The one they had announced so early in the morning, in the schools old, mucky, ugly hall. The guy who wasn't coming back after all, his seat now abandoned, no one seemed to notice. . .

But what if they had? His world had crumbled underneath his "perfect-student" mask. What if I had noticed that the thought had crossed his mind. That the only A+ he could ever give was the blood type hidden in his veins. What if, I too had told him that my mind was once quicksand that dragged my soul into its depth.

That the world thought me a hazard, with each word I spoke, I had meant. That I too was under stress, covered in caution tape and filled with cement. What if I had told him, that people are not poetry. What if I had told him, that I knew he wished to be less awkward, that sweet nothings could roll from the tip of his tongue, that he could even be better. 

What if I had told him, that if he was poetry he would be my favorite line. That he was a magnificent word I was yearning to define. That ever since I had seen him my eyes were fixed, he was like a poetry book and I a starving artist who was gruelingly hooked. But people are not poetry, although he would have been my favorite book.

What if I had told him, that instead of poetry he was simply a book. That his book did not have enough pages to cover his happy ending but I was willing to rip out pages of mine to fulfill his. That some of my pages have suffered fires and some are still burning, but if he had wanted the pages to my life's sequel, he could of had them!

What if I had told him that his dull, dirty brown eyes were far better than the deep blue of an ocean. That his eyes hinted at a story that I wanted to read through, they were a fix of melted chocolate when I was looking for something sweet. That he was something mysterious, something I couldn't meet.

What if I had told him that when he did what he did, I swore I saw red in the sky. As if his very blood has tainted the nights sky. That the rain kept on pouring there was no end in sight, when he had laid frozen where there was no light. I wished I could have fought the tiny voice in his head that had told him, "I wish to be dead."

What if I had told him that he wasn't here alone? That we all have been trapped in different hells, no one was against him; It was every man for themselves. Maybe, just maybe, we would both be better.