#notaveteran - Hello Poetry

I signed the paper with a government issued pen, Twenty maybe twenty-one—close enough to pretend I understood the weight of a name in ink, the fine print no one teaches you to read or think. They said college paid, said you’ll be set, said discipline, pride—no regrets. They showed me uniforms, starched and clean, not the dirt that settles in places unseen. I thought it’d be drills, travel, fun stories to tell, marching in rhythm, no problems, sleeping well. I didn’t picture the heat in my chest, or the sound a body makes when it loses its breath. Guatemala—Fuertes Caminos—thick air, heavy and loud, jungle pressing in like a judging crowd. Orders came fast, no time to debate, just a second’s decision that rewrote my fate. There’s a moment that lives behind my eyes, no matter how many times I try to disguise the way it felt—too quick, too real, how permanent a single pull of my M60 could feel. They said I did what I had to do, said good job, soldier, said we’re proud of you. Pinned fancy ribbon to BDUs, shook my hand, called it courage I didn’t understand. A Bronze Star glinted in a quiet drawer, but it didn’t soften the growing storm. It didn’t answer the silent stare of someone who isn’t alive anymore, but still there. They told me, move on, like it’s a place you leave, like grief’s a coat you can just unweave. Like memory fades if you let it sit— but memory doesn’t work like that. It lingers in corners, it sharpens with time, repeats itself like a broken rhyme. Gets louder in quiet, heavier still, a shadow that follows despite your will. I went in thinking life would begin, came out carrying something under my skin. Not visible scars, no blood to show, just a weight that refused to let me go. And they’ll keep the records, the medals, the praise— neatly filed in patriotic ways. But the truth doesn’t fit in a ceremony speech: some things you do never loosen their reach. No one ever asked me if something was wrong or if I was OK…not even a single "mental health advocate". Never once was I given space to not be ok or finally exhale after decades of holding my breath. All I could do was suppress everything, creating a situation where my nervous system found my own feelings to be dangerous, even love and joy. That, until it became too much, and then.....dissociation, detachment, grey, empty.....freeze response. © 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

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Mar 26

Mar 26, 2026 at 8:37 AM UTC

MNPikey

Blood y Bronze Trash

I signed the paper with a government issued pen, Twenty maybe twenty-one—close enough to pretend I understood the weight of a name in ink, the fine print no one teaches you to read or think. They said college paid, said you’ll be set, said discipline, pride—no regrets. They showed me uniforms, starched and clean, not the dirt that settles in places unseen. I thought it’d be drills, travel, fun stories to tell, marching in rhythm, no problems, sleeping well. I didn’t picture the heat in my chest, or the sound a body makes when it loses its breath. Guatemala—Fuertes Caminos—thick air, heavy and loud, jungle pressing in like a judging crowd. Orders came fast, no time to debate, just a second’s decision that rewrote my fate. There’s a moment that lives behind my eyes, no matter how many times I try to disguise the way it felt—too quick, too real, how permanent a single pull of my M60 could feel. They said I did what I had to do, said good job, soldier, said we’re proud of you. Pinned fancy ribbon to BDUs, shook my hand, called it courage I didn’t understand. A Bronze Star glinted in a quiet drawer, but it didn’t soften the growing storm. It didn’t answer the silent stare of someone who isn’t alive anymore, but still there. They told me, move on, like it’s a place you leave, like grief’s a coat you can just unweave. Like memory fades if you let it sit— but memory doesn’t work like that. It lingers in corners, it sharpens with time, repeats itself like a broken rhyme. Gets louder in quiet, heavier still, a shadow that follows despite your will. I went in thinking life would begin, came out carrying something under my skin. Not visible scars, no blood to show, just a weight that refused to let me go. And they’ll keep the records, the medals, the praise— neatly filed in patriotic ways. But the truth doesn’t fit in a ceremony speech: some things you do never loosen their reach. No one ever asked me if something was wrong or if I was OK…not even a single "mental health advocate". Never once was I given space to not be ok or finally exhale after decades of holding my breath. All I could do was suppress everything, creating a situation where my nervous system found my own feelings to be dangerous, even love and joy. That, until it became too much, and then.....dissociation, detachment, grey, empty.....freeze response. © 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

47

Guatemala I was young, Military Police with clean new boots And a chest full of hope and pride, Still thinking service was about salutes, Not shadows on the other side. They said, “Guatemala—it won’t be bad.” Jungle duty, heat and aid. We packed like boys chasing purpose, Not knowing what price would be paid. The border near El Salvador— Soldiers, hesitant tourists, turned. A mission blurred into ambush light, And suddenly, everything burned. The first shot cracked like thunder, Then chaos danced through every tree. My tripod unfolded before I could think, Like it already knew what I’d need to be. And there he was. Not a ghost. Not some faceless foe. A man, breathing, crouched in the brush— Too real, too human, too close. No flak vest on me. Just sweat and breath. And I saw him—thank God, I saw him— His eyes locked with mine In that final second between life and death. His collar had red-threaded logos, Symbols I’d never seen before. But they’re seared in me now, Just like the way he hit the jungle floor. I don’t remember pulling the trigger— Only the recoil and sound, And how silence came after, Like the jungle held its breath all around. I stared at his body like it might move, Like maybe I’d made some mistake. But war doesn’t offer rewinds Or give back the things it takes. Later, the others spoke in code: Rules of engagement, mission clear. But all I could see were his eyes, Still there in my mind, year after year. They never teach you How a single second can break a man— How you carry a stranger’s final breath Long after your tour ends and the years expand. I went there thinking I’d find meaning, Some noble fire in uniform thread. But in Guatemala, I met a man— And left with part of myself dead. © 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

0

Apr 22, 2025

Apr 22, 2025 at 5:26 PM UTC

MNPikey

Guatemala

Guatemala I was young, Military Police with clean new boots And a chest full of hope and pride, Still thinking service was about salutes, Not shadows on the other side. They said, “Guatemala—it won’t be bad.” Jungle duty, heat and aid. We packed like boys chasing purpose, Not knowing what price would be paid. The border near El Salvador— Soldiers, hesitant tourists, turned. A mission blurred into ambush light, And suddenly, everything burned. The first shot cracked like thunder, Then chaos danced through every tree. My tripod unfolded before I could think, Like it already knew what I’d need to be. And there he was. Not a ghost. Not some faceless foe. A man, breathing, crouched in the brush— Too real, too human, too close. No flak vest on me. Just sweat and breath. And I saw him—thank God, I saw him— His eyes locked with mine In that final second between life and death. His collar had red-threaded logos, Symbols I’d never seen before. But they’re seared in me now, Just like the way he hit the jungle floor. I don’t remember pulling the trigger— Only the recoil and sound, And how silence came after, Like the jungle held its breath all around. I stared at his body like it might move, Like maybe I’d made some mistake. But war doesn’t offer rewinds Or give back the things it takes. Later, the others spoke in code: Rules of engagement, mission clear. But all I could see were his eyes, Still there in my mind, year after year. They never teach you How a single second can break a man— How you carry a stranger’s final breath Long after your tour ends and the years expand. I went there thinking I’d find meaning, Some noble fire in uniform thread. But in Guatemala, I met a man— And left with part of myself dead. © 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

51

In the Eyes of God She brought me here with love so wide, To stand with her, to be my guide. But first—these pews, this sacred place, Where I must reckon, seek some grace. RCIA on Thursday nights, Learning saints and candle lights. I followed faith I didn’t know, Just to be hers, to let love grow. One evening, quiet in his room, I met the priest—no fire, no gloom. Father Lybarger, calm and still, He asked me gently, “What you will?” I said, “There’s something I still bear— A weight too deep for just a prayer. I wore the flag, I did my part… But I’ve killed a man. And it scars my heart.” His silence wasn’t cold or long, But measured, like a sacred song. “You served,” he said. “You carried flame. But war, my son, is not your shame.” “It was duty,” I said. “Orders, battle— But still I see his face, and more. Can I stand before the Lord, And vow a love I once ignored?” He breathed, then nodded, soft and grave, “God knows the burdens soldiers brave. He sees the soul beneath the fight, And walks with you through every night. You didn’t choose to k ill in hate— You served the world, you bore its weight. Confess not guilt, but give your pain, Let mercy wash you clean again.” I left with tears that didn’t fall, But sat behind my every wall. And when she looked at me that night, She saw me whole, and not the fight. She asked me why I stayed behind, What I had needed there to find. I gave a smile, I made it small— Said, “Just a talk, that’s all, that’s all.” She searched my face, but didn’t press, Just held my silence, nothing less. She knew that something lived inside, But let it wait—she let me hide. For love like hers and grace like this, Are forged through pain, not only bliss. And when I say “I do” that day, I’ll know what sacrifice can weigh. I gave a life I can’t reclaim, But God still whispers through my shame: “You are not broken—just made new, And worthy of the love in view.” © 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

0

Apr 24, 2025

Apr 24, 2025 at 1:46 PM UTC

MNPikey

In The Eyes Of God

In the Eyes of God She brought me here with love so wide, To stand with her, to be my guide. But first—these pews, this sacred place, Where I must reckon, seek some grace. RCIA on Thursday nights, Learning saints and candle lights. I followed faith I didn’t know, Just to be hers, to let love grow. One evening, quiet in his room, I met the priest—no fire, no gloom. Father Lybarger, calm and still, He asked me gently, “What you will?” I said, “There’s something I still bear— A weight too deep for just a prayer. I wore the flag, I did my part… But I’ve killed a man. And it scars my heart.” His silence wasn’t cold or long, But measured, like a sacred song. “You served,” he said. “You carried flame. But war, my son, is not your shame.” “It was duty,” I said. “Orders, battle— But still I see his face, and more. Can I stand before the Lord, And vow a love I once ignored?” He breathed, then nodded, soft and grave, “God knows the burdens soldiers brave. He sees the soul beneath the fight, And walks with you through every night. You didn’t choose to k ill in hate— You served the world, you bore its weight. Confess not guilt, but give your pain, Let mercy wash you clean again.” I left with tears that didn’t fall, But sat behind my every wall. And when she looked at me that night, She saw me whole, and not the fight. She asked me why I stayed behind, What I had needed there to find. I gave a smile, I made it small— Said, “Just a talk, that’s all, that’s all.” She searched my face, but didn’t press, Just held my silence, nothing less. She knew that something lived inside, But let it wait—she let me hide. For love like hers and grace like this, Are forged through pain, not only bliss. And when I say “I do” that day, I’ll know what sacrifice can weigh. I gave a life I can’t reclaim, But God still whispers through my shame: “You are not broken—just made new, And worthy of the love in view.” © 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

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