Little soldier stands in the smoke
Of bullets, of mines, of bombs.
Thrown into a minefield
In a war he never asked for,
He fights—for his life, for his name.

Little soldier faces the enemies.
He sees his own blood flowing out of his body.
He thinks it's the end, before he's reminded it's not over and over.
He wonders if the memory of him will carry on, or die with his body.

Little soldier can't let that happen.
He has to stop the blood from flowing out of him.
He has to use every chance he's given at life.
He has to make the memory of him last longer.
He can't die,
Not when he's so close to winning.

Little soldier finally wins.
His wounds are finally healed and sealed shut,
But sometimes he still feels the red liquid on his hands, warm and thick.
He's grateful for every second chance at life he was given,
But he wonders why he got so lucky—did he really deserve each one?
His existence continues to form memories in others' minds,
But he's sure some people remember him as dead already.
He's standing proudly,
But his legs are shaking on stable ground.

Little soldier is smiling.
But is he really celebrating?
The guilt follows him.
But is he really happy?
The horrors follow him.
But is he really alive?
Near-death shadows cling.

Little soldier is still human and fragile.
His soul isn't bulletproof.
His heart isn't bulletproof.
His will isn't bulletproof.
His mind isn't bulletproof.

Little soldier is hopeless.
He wishes he had a bulletproof vest for his soul as well,
But science isn't that advanced yet.
He wishes his heart was complete so he could love fully again,
But he wonders if anyone could love him, heart stitched or whole.
He wishes he had the will to see the sun rise for another day.
But it's all the same—the sameness is driving him more insane than he already is.
He wishes he could shush his mind when he goes to sleep,
But his mind is as stubborn as he was on the battlefield.

Little soldier went to war
And won with his name,
But people are blinded.
Blinded by the medals,
And blinded by his survivor smile.

Little soldier knows—all they see is a body.
A body that's smiling,
A body that's standing,
A body that's breathing,
A body that's functioning.

Little soldier is an empty bag of flesh,
Filled with remains of bullets, the never-ending ache of imagined wounds
And dread for a future
He both hopes will come soon and never arrive.