Poetry Slam - Soldier

Poetry speaks

I am a soldier. I stand tall and upright. I carry a gun that never points forward but side to side. My uniform is clean and pressed up against my chest, hiding any feature that would differentiate me from the rest. I wear a cross that hangs from my neck but I must keep it hidden, for shame on me if I let it be seen. I am a soldier. I am not a warrior. I was never meant to fight. How can I shoot if I myself struggle to tell wrong from right.

But still I am hear, hiding all of my fears. Yes I am afraid. Terrified of the day when I must be brave, and fail. So many like me are on the front lines. Their guns pointed forward yet mine is still side to side. Completely empty. Not a single round. Others may begin to scream but I will not be the cause of the sound. I pray in my head for those who are trying to breathe but are choking on death. Should I feel their pain as my hands too are red. The blood won’t wash away but instead it is stained. This is the life I have led. The life of a soldier.

At least that’s what I am told. I sit on my hands because look at them I won’t. My gun on my side, still death free, completely clean. No awards for me. No proud smiles on any face. I was for myself since other lives I did not save. Human I no longer feel, as I am just a uniform. The color grey, that is what defines me, my history, my lore, my script, my score, my everything and every day. I am not me but am I really a soldier?

I stand on the battlefield next to heroic men knowing all too well that I could never be as honorable as them. Reality hits hard but not harder than the kevlar that I have on. It muffles my pain and gives me a fake sense of strength. Yet deep down inside I know i’m anything but strong. I am no soldier.

It’s just a fake title. A facade that keeps a young man upright like strings on a puppet. Invisible hands that move me around little by little. No control, as if this whole time i’ve been nothing but a toy. My gun feels fake. My legs don’t move. My body is torn to pieces and yet there is no pain. Just the color grey. Am I just a toy soldier?

That would make sense. My suit has never changed. My gun never fires. My cross never comes out and my hands are always stained. My lips never move, at all times is mute. I’m forever the same.

This is what I am, and will always be. Just a plastic life that is nothing but a harsh reality. My gun shall stay side to side. My uniform clean and pressed up against my chest while hiding the God that hangs from my neck. I will forever play this role as it’s my only choice. Never firing a shot, never raising my voice. As I pretend to be a toy soldier.

- Andrew King