The free form kind of frazzled form of this poem worked so well with the content/topic, and hooked me from the beginning. I think the matter-of-fact tone here is the only way we can talk about things as hellish as warm because otherwise words fail. Battle fields are robbed of sense, and words we use to make sense of the senseless. It hurt to read this poem, but I think it's supposed to. Like, I want to fix it, I want this not to be real, but I can't and I know that is not how life works. All I can do is honor this pain and wittiness it's reality, doing my best to help heal it wherever I find it. I don't know if this is your story, or another's. In some respects it doesn't matter, because these are your words for it, and that is the mattering part just now.

It is striking how the whole poem is kind of about this repetitious trap that goes on day in and day out, and yet, at the end it says, "Only holding for a tomorrow to come." A tomorrow, but not the repetitious tomorrow. A tomorrow that feels like a tomorrow? Or is this that the person wants to live into tomorrow, even if tomorrow will look like today it still means living? I am less likely to think it is the latter because so much of the poem has an attitude of being done and inviting death -

"I see bullets flying towards me I smile and welcome them with open arms
The bliss of dying is all I cherish now
I close my eyes and relish in the pain."

Though I am sure it is possible to feel both things since feelings rarely make sense. We can want to stay alive and long for death simultaneously.

I have done a poor job articulating it, but thank you for this poem. It was bravely written.