The War That Shamed the Soldiers: Vietnam
A poem spoken in the voice of men who carried a burden the nation never claimed
The war that shamed the soldiers
didn’t start with the first shot
it started with silence
that waited for them
when they came home.
Vietnam marked them,
not just with jungle rot
and nights that never ended,
but with a kind of guilt
they didn’t earn, yet couldn’t wash off.
They fought a war
politicians argued about
from clean rooms
and safe distances,
while boys barely grown,
bled into red mud
that never knew their names.
The shame wasn’t theirs
but they carried it anyway,
Because the country
that sent them
refused to hold it.
They came back to protests,
to spit,
to blame,
to a nation eager
to forget t... |
The Shadow That Carried My Name
A descent into the myth, the weight, the haunting song of old....
The shadow that carried my name
didn’t follow me;
it claimed me,
rising from the ground like smoke
from the fire I never lit
but still burned for.
It walked ahead,
a dark ancestor,
a shape carved from every man
who bled so I could breathe.
Its spine was made of old stories,
its hands of unfinished prayers,
its face a blur of everything
I tried not to become.
At night it grew taller,
stretching past the tree line,
dragging the moon down
just to see me clearer.
It whispered in a voice
older than my blood,
a voice that knew
what I feared,
what I hid,
what I inherited.
I tried to outrun it once,
but the earth itself
tilted toward its steps,
... |
When the Night Learns Your Name
When the night learns your name,
it doesn’t whisper it soft,
it drags the syllables slow,
like a thumb across a bruise
you stopped admitting still hurts.
It comes wearing the scent
of old rain and old memory,
sits beside you like a brother
who knows too much
and won’t let you lie tonight.
It asks nothing.
Just waits.
Let’s the dark do the talking.
Suddenly the quiet
is full of every road walked barefoot,
every promise buried,
every ache folded into your chest
like a secret hymn.
When the night learns your name,
it calls you home
to the parts of yourself
you keep locked behind your ribs,
the tender ones,
the trembling ones,
the ones that still believe in morning.
And you answer,
not with words,
but... |
Pour the Water, SIP the Wine
Pour the water to wash away the weight of yesterday’s dust.
Sip the wine to honor the fire still burning in my chest.
I am learning that healing is a rhythm
a rinse, a rise, a taste of sweetness after the bitter has passed. |
Stand Down
Stand down.
Not because I am fragile, but because I am finished shrinking to make room for someone else’s thunder.
I’ve held my tongue, folded my fire, softened my edges for far too long.
But today, I rise unarmored and unafraid.
Stand down— for your own peace, not mine.
|
Slow-Burning
I lay beside the anger like a fire that won’t die down, embers whispering what the flames were too loud to say.
It warms and wounds in the same breath, curling around my ribs like smoke that refuses to rise.
But morning always comes, soft as a hand on my back, and I decide again whether to feed the fire or finally let it cool.
|
Brick by Brick
Brick by brick,
the wall I built
to survive what hurt me.
Every piece I lift away
lets in one more breath,
one more truth,
one more version of myself
that isn’t hiding anymore.
Brick by brick,
I tear down the fortress
I once mistook for safety.
My hands are dusty,
my heart is loud,
and every crumble
is a victory.
I’m not afraid
of what stands behind the wall—
I’m afraid of staying trapped
inside it.
Removing brick by brick was
the weight I carried
for far too long.
Some walls fall loudly,
mine falls in whispers—
a gentle undoing,
a quiet return,
to who I was before the heaviness.
|
Turn Your Back
Turn your back— not in anger, but in arrival. Some roads don’t deserve your footsteps anymore, and walking away is the loudest truth you’ll ever speak.
|
Bending Not to Break
Like a branch shaped by seasons, I curve with the weather of my life— sun?warmed, storm?tested, softened at the edges by time.
I don’t stand rigid against the world; I move with it, letting each challenge carve a gentler strength.
This is how I endure— not by resisting, but by bending just enough.
|
If Brothers Could Sing the Blues
If brothers could sing the blues,
their voices would rise like smoke at dawn—
soft at first, then aching, curling around the truth they never learned to name.
They’d hum the weight of promises broken,
the echo of footsteps leaving, the quiet battles
fought behind steady eyes.
And in that song,
you’d hear the strength it takes
to carry a world that never learned
how to carry them.
If brothers could sing the blues,
the sound would be river?deep—
a slow current of memory,
a tide of grit and grace.
Their notes would fall like worn stones,
polished by years of holding too much.
A harmony carved from struggle,
but warm as a hand on your shoulder
when the night gets long.
A song, rooted, raw, the beat would hit hard—
bass like a heartbeat, ly... |
29800
