My cousin recently returned from Iraq. This is a poem about his experiences
Missile
A Missile Flew Overhead
A Little child looked up and said
"By Tomorrow...Will we be dead?"
The Soldier looked down with uncertainty
And said in a cold, cold voice "Maybe"
All around they looked up to this man
He came in and took a stand
He rescued them from tyranny and poverty
But they couldn't see
The internal crumbling that happens after each bullet fire
The Calm exterior slowly being replaced with a man in dire need
No one heeds
His warning
That ever since he landed in Iraq
The insanity's slowly coming back
He aimed the cross-hairs
Intended for a Taliban's head
BOOM! the 50 caliber's noise blares
And a split-second later he's dead
Even though it's his duty
Every shot fired he dies inside
And soon everything he tried to hide
Will be out for everyone to see
His time was done
He was going away
He dropped his gun
as the missile flew
A Little boy and his crew
Ran to him and they said
"By tomorrow we won't be dead.
All Because of your, our hero."
He looked down and said
In A cold, cold voice
"I Am not a hero. I Am a monster."
Just as the missile flew over
