Warrior
Love is a battlefield.
Or at least that’s what Pat Benatar taught us.
Love is a battlefield, and we are the warriors.
We fight, we love, we make love,
we shed our tears, the blood of our being,
we die, we live.
Love is a battlefield, and life is a war,
But there’s little to distinguish this battle from the last.
I may be young, but my hands are old and wizened
From holding my gun, shooting off rounds,
Carrying the sick and wounded when medical vans couldn’t break into No Man’s Land.
My feet are weary and water-logged from walking the trenches,
Making my rounds, standing guard.
I see with eyes that have images of the gore burned onto them,
Because I dared to look the fires in the eyes.
Love is a battlefield and I am a warrior.
You wonder how I’ve made it through this long,
Why the blasts of late haven’t sent me reeling with the rest,
Because the radio wires are cut -
Chatter from headquarters has been replaced by bursts of gunfire,
And we’re left in the crosshairs, waiting for the trigger pulls.
But this is nothing.
I’ve seen gore and destruction nobody should have to see.
A bullet in your foot is nothing compared to being riddled with metal,
Spending your first war in a hospital wing
And fighting your way past your greatest enemy,
Your own body,
So you can earn the right to fight again.
The front slowly approaching is nothing compared to the hands of your enemy
Around your neck, your chest, your thighs,
Holding you down on a foreign bed,
With no clear exit strategy except holding your breath and closing your eyes.
The wailing of these bullets is nothing compared to the wailing of women
Seeing our fallen, lined up in front of us,
The ground too hard to bury them,
Their silent faces screaming for even a second more than they had.
The silent nights here are nothing compared to the tension of a blackout
In the forest where your brothers-in-arms “accidentally” left you,
Paralyzingly alone,
With nobody to keep watch, or keep watch for, but yourself.
Love is a battlefield,
But it was never my final place of rest.
So no, I am not shaking in my waterlogged boots,
Nor do you need to be.
This soon shall pass, the war will be lost and won,
And we’ll all get through this.
After all, I’m still here.
I am a warrior.
Love is a battlefield.
Or at least that’s what Pat Benatar taught us.
Love is a battlefield, and we are the warriors.
We fight, we love, we make love,
we shed our tears, the blood of our being,
we die, we live.
Love is a battlefield, and life is a war,
But there’s little to distinguish this battle from the last.
I may be young, but my hands are old and wizened
From holding my gun, shooting off rounds,
Carrying the sick and wounded when medical vans couldn’t break into No Man’s Land.
My feet are weary and water-logged from walking the trenches,
Making my rounds, standing guard.
I see with eyes that have images of the gore burned onto them,
Because I dared to look the fires in the eyes.
Love is a battlefield and I am a warrior.
You wonder how I’ve made it through this long,
Why the blasts of late haven’t sent me reeling with the rest,
Because the radio wires are cut -
Chatter from headquarters has been replaced by bursts of gunfire,
And we’re left in the crosshairs, waiting for the trigger pulls.
But this is nothing.
I’ve seen gore and destruction nobody should have to see.
A bullet in your foot is nothing compared to being riddled with metal,
Spending your first war in a hospital wing
And fighting your way past your greatest enemy,
Your own body,
So you can earn the right to fight again.
The front slowly approaching is nothing compared to the hands of your enemy
Around your neck, your chest, your thighs,
Holding you down on a foreign bed,
With no clear exit strategy except holding your breath and closing your eyes.
The wailing of these bullets is nothing compared to the wailing of women
Seeing our fallen, lined up in front of us,
The ground too hard to bury them,
Their silent faces screaming for even a second more than they had.
The silent nights here are nothing compared to the tension of a blackout
In the forest where your brothers-in-arms “accidentally” left you,
Paralyzingly alone,
With nobody to keep watch, or keep watch for, but yourself.
Love is a battlefield,
But it was never my final place of rest.
So no, I am not shaking in my waterlogged boots,
Nor do you need to be.
This soon shall pass, the war will be lost and won,
And we’ll all get through this.
After all, I’m still here.
I am a warrior.
Now that that's out there, I want to know: Am I alone? Have you ever had to have this talk with yourself? Would you ever want to? And is this "battle" the be-all, end-all of human existence? I know suffering and trials are sometimes necessary for growth, but is that growth always necessary? And is it necessary that these lessons and this maturity come from pain? Leave a comment below!
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