*Explicit Language and Content Warning*
The pain.
The sweat.
The mud.
The blood.
The screams.
The limbs.
The death.
The flood.
The booze doesn’t kill the pain. Neither do the drugs.
I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to go home either.
My buddy wrote to me. He said when he got home they spat on him.
He said they called him “baby killer” and “murderer.”
He told me he saw Jonsey. He’s living in a flop house, no one will hire him. He spends his days strung out now.
They think we want to be here? They think we volunteered for this?
Fuck them for turning their backs on us. They couldn’t take the fucked up shit we’ve seen.
They’d puke from the stench of burnt bodies and maggot infested corpses left sweltering in this goddamned jungle.
These holier-than-thou motherfuckers smoke dope and wander around with their little protest signs all day, and then go home to their safe, comfy beds.
We curl up with the rats and mosquitoes every night and hope we don’t wake up with our fucking throats slit. Give peace a chance, my ass.
So go ahead and spit on us, call us killers. I hope for your sake, you never have to become a killer like me.
© The Beginning At Last
The Beginning At Last 
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