I was contacted and asked to write something from a soldier's perspective about life during and after war. This is one of the poems that came out during that process.

Make Me See

In my dreams that burn on every night

they let themselves in like a thief stealing my peace.

Lying on their backs beside me

they take my hands

trying to make me see what I've done to them.

 

With eyes still closed the desert wind runs over me.

I can't open my eyes,

I don't know if they're still there

The men, the women, the child their hands still hold onto me.

 

Take me home from this

they won't understand but at least I can try to be free.

Take me home from this

let the hand that holds mine be someone that believes in me.

 

It's another dream, one like every night

the fires burn, the blood runs down the street

They're standing next to me

trying to lift me to

take me

then they can show me

what I've done to them.

Trying to make me see.

 

I wake and cross the line

I walk by myself

down the bullet ridden road.

 

A hand takes mine

the child leads me

she takes me to the flowers

the ones remembering when she lived

my skin starts to burn as her tears tear into my skin.

 

She’s holding onto me

it’s tearing me down.

She’s holding onto me

it’s starting to make me see

 

Take me home from this

take me somewhere new

Take me home from this

I don't have enough tears to cleanse me of the things I did

© 1993-2020 by Jeremy Houghton.


 

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And it's just not nice, so don't do it. Be nice, it feels better, I promise.