My hands are stained with the blood of a man I dont even know


He lays there, faceless, nameless
just another body

But no, not just another body

That could've been me

That could've been me, leg blown off by a mine

That could have been me, gunned down by mortar fire

I wonder if he had a family..


Bet he had a wife and two kids, just like mine

Bet they are waiting for Daddy to come home

Little did they know, he never would


But they missed him, he had been gone for so long

and Mom was so sad, you see no one was their to tuck them in at nights


“But he had to go” Mommy said, lip quivering with tears in her eyes, he was brave and strong, he had to be drafted


He had just married, just a boy, the old folks would say

His family will never see him again
No I.D., no name, just another body

Just another person killed for a selfish and ignorant leader
who decided that because of petty differences,
they would rip familys apart, cause bloodshed, strife, and famine, and let millions die

All this for unknown reasons, sometimes land, money ,oil, power, the world may never know

If they, the presidents, leaders ,kings, politicians, and government feel that a predicament is so dire that millions should die , “ For the sake of their country”

Maybe they should be on the frontlines,

or let their sons and daughters go into a middle of a mine field pressed by gunfire, strapped with an Ak-47

Maybe they should make life or death decisions with bombs dropping around them,
the terrible echoes of the gunfire haunting them, the horrendous heart-wrenching cries of fallen friends as they die for worthless causes, for wars they never believed in.

Maybe they should stand in trenches for days without water and sleep, sweat trickling down their brows and stinging their eyes

But they dare not move or make a sound, in fear it could cost them their lives.

Dirt encrusted in every inch and crevice of your body, the smell of decaying flesh and blood, the moans of the sick and the wounded

Bodies drenched by fear and exhaustion and a fierce will to survive.

Let them march through scorching deserts with flies and burning sun, hallucinating the oasis of the happiness of their homes, tongues parched, feet clomping steadily through the endless sand.

Or cutting through deep dense jungles, humid and hot, swamped in mist, surrounded by the noises of the night and the creatures that prowl through the undergrowth in the darkness
Or struggling against monsoons with winds roaring and howling and rain soaking you to the bone, mud sucking you under with every step you take
Or in the desert city, where children are strapped with bombs and you can’t tell the difference between insurgents and civilians
And you can only think about your home and hoping that you will survive, make it back, and pray that you won’tbe, just another body.