I have the poet's curse
To feel everything as deeply as this.
And now I realize,
as I reach for pen and paper
instead of rifle and fist-

I have seen little beauty
But plenty darkness,
no courage, only fear.
Explosions, hot air,
and flesh all seared.

The stillness of time,
Oh god, it happens so fast.
Their laden, heavy breath.
The silence with their last.

The terrible disconnection
as life spins out of control.
The horrible pressure
to unburden my soul.

So, it's with pen and paper
my battles are now fought.
Sleepless nights,
my mind distraught.