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Descovia May 16
I look in the mirror, trying to remember who I am. Is what I see, is everything, I desire to be?

Or is it merely a reflection of exactly who I am.

Sometimes, the unknown drives me into madness. Not being able to understand, who is truly behind the eyes I see.

In my reflection.


The eyes are the window to the soul, but I can not see, all I see is Jesus the

Christ living in me, all I am is all I try to be is good enough be be there one

that I am called to be, the reflex hat I see is who I am but is it all that I can be
Matthew Descovia & Brandon Williams collaboration
20 Cents
The guy gave the war concern 20 cents
This was enough to buy ten bullets
Which would **** ten enemy soldiers
If fired accurately by a good soldier
He'd give more if he could afford it
But he was jobless and skint
20 cents was all he could afford
Bread and coffee cost money
Even if cheaper thru the VA
His benefits were little not enough
So he just gave 20 cents
To the war collection team
When they knocked on his door
It brought back memories
Vietnam and Central America
Plus other deniable places
Still alive in his head
He didn't like Russians
So 20 cents was fine
The cost of ten bullets
For a competent soldier
He prayed they wouldn't miss
Once he was a soldier
With many good kills
All of them Russians...
Ylzm Oct 2021
Hidden deep in the galley at sea far from the front
Washing pans and floors and sometimes onions
Never a shot fired at nor its distanced boom heard
Now proudly badged, poor, unemployed, a veteran
Strutting in the town square openly carrying
Seeing fear and respect in mocking eyes
And gratitude in sneering smiles and sarcastic lips
But utter despair and pity to those that truly loved
Now old, lonely, far from those who once cared
Sharing truths on the net when away from Facebook jail
And calling out fake news with evangelistic fervour
But touch Trump, and even jihadists cow before his ferocity
i used to have this
friend
we would go outside
during the days
after the bell

one game we played
was kind of like
hunting
except it didn't
feel natural

lizard brains
were easy enough
to catch and ****
without a second
thought

we would stuff their
mouths
with explosives
then find and burn
the remains

until that time he
accidentally blew off
his own hand
we don't play anymore.

#EndTheWars #SanctionsKill
(for Mike & Jason)
Sean Martin Nov 2020
We had an enemy we didn't understand
We had an ally we couldn't rely on
All we had was each other
All we had was our brotherhood
All we had was our rigorous training
We were baptised in fire and violence
We were sunk in cruel unrelenting combat
We struck back like Hammer and Anvil
We kept hope in a nightmare paid with blood, sweat and tears
Some of us left without a beating heart
Some of us made it but forgot how to live
Some of us turned our scars to success
However those left of us that have managed to survive...
We all feel as if we're standing in the centre of a Burning House
Trigger warning
Lily Mar 2020
The man was leaning back in his fancy wheelchair
So much that he was almost parallel with the ground,
And while everyone else who was
There for the church service was freaking out,
He was as still as a gym before a free throw.
His left leg was not present, his right one at an unnatural angle,
And my mind started to conjure up a bomb
That had thrown him through the air,
Away from his friends, his commander, away
From his life as he had known it.
He had large homemade, not quite mittens,
But knit sock-like articles over his hands,
Alternating orange and black yarn with only a couple of
Cute errors where orange touched orange or black touched black.
A slight grunt, a swift motion, and the mittens were off,
Revealing a left hand twisted into a fist and a right hand
In a white cast, hanging limp at his side.
His soft peppermint scent, large wrinkly face, and wispy
White beard was reminiscent of Santa Claus in the mall,
Though Old Saint Nick was never that far back in his chair.
His assistant was a frantic college girl who looked like she had lost a child at the park
And was trying to decide whether to ask for help or
Continue to struggle helplessly on her own.
Each turn of a dial or press of a button pushed the man farther down,
Until his feet were almost higher than his head.
Yet on the man’s face was the type of smile that a grandpa has
When he’s about to checkmate his grandson in a game of chess;
Triumphant, knowing, loving.
He must have seen me openly staring at his cruelly funny dilemma,
For he turned to me and grinned,
“Don’t worry about it; makes life interesting.”
I smiled back, not knowing what else to do.
As suddenly as a pitcher throws to first,
The man jolted upward, and his chair returned
To its normal angle.
With the crisis averted, church
Began, and although I tried to focus on the preacher,
My eyes and mind kept wandering to my veteran.
His one leg tapped to his own drum,
His strong voice belting out the melody on the hymns,
And a hard “Amen!” was heard every other sentence.
Happy.
He was happy.
He had one leg, two useless hands, was living in a place away
From family and friends, with much of the joys
Of his youth over, past, gone,
Dead.
But my veteran was happy.
His frantic college assistant seemed very pleased
That his chair didn’t have a repeat episode on the way out
Of the chapel after church.
He shot me a quick nod as he was wheeled out,
His wisp of a beard bouncing on his chest.
Perhaps he would have been a Santa Claus at a mall
In a different life, one without war, sadness, pain, hardship.
Maybe he could have been a more active grandpa to his grandkids,
If he had them; he could have played football catch in the yard,
Secretly baked cookies for Grandma with them at two in the morning,
Get on the roof and scare his kids hanging Christmas lights.
Maybe he could have done and been all these things, but for the
War, sadness, pain, hardship.
I know what the veteran would say to that though:
“Don’t worry about it; makes life interesting.”
Thought I'd write about a character I saw at a veterans' home church service this Sunday.  I thought he had a good lesson to teach, although he wasn't aware he was teaching.
Michael Stefan Feb 2020
Heave **! Your cry astounds
Flummoxing your enemies ashore
Debonaire you brandish pistol and sword
Cutting down resistant scallywags

Thy treasure shall be mine!
You dash haphazardly between slashes
Excitement and *** course through
Fueling you to victory

Imposing is thy stance!
Booted foot on stack of cannon *****
Actioned-packed adventure
As you reave and raid the seas

Your adventure keeps me alert
But my ship's an iron beast of land
I think of daring combat
And your exploits give me hope

I load my rifle in hot anticipation
Prepared to write my own adventure
The giant steel hatch lowers
And hot iron rips through me

My adventure ends prematurely
My *** is without excitement and masks pain
A hospital bed now serves as my galleon
Your book by my bedside, untouched
This poem was inspired by 3 months of laying in a hospital, as I had major surgery on my back, kidney, shoulder.  It was a terrible experience that I would never want anyone to share.  I remember being so ******* reading books about glamour and adventure.  Rarely does adventure leave you without scars and war is far from glamourous.  War is hell.
Michael Stefan Feb 2020
You throw money at me
People smile and slap my back
Full-ride my boy!
You are set for life
I can't stuff dollar bills in broken vertebrae
Your filthy cash won't balm my burns
Nor wipe away my bullet scars
Your ******* money can't ease my mind
It isn't patchworked convalescence for wicked dreams
I would trade all of the money in the world
I would knock down this castle of pennies
To not be nickeled and dimed
For a quarter of the functionality
That my body once had
Sorry guys, I wrote this when I was medically retired from the U.S. Army.  It still brings a tear to my eye thinking about the day they told me that my spine wasn't going to function correctly for the rest of my life.
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