The Song of Myself

I finally understand the constant aching pain of a shattered heart,
To sit by your side and feel you slowly fade away,
To see the color drain from your face, each breath becoming shorter and shorter.
I can taste the salty tears that fall upon my cheeks, my skin.
I am the one who picked you up when you fell down, knees torn up and
bleeding.
I am the one who tucked you into bed each night, reading you a bedtime
story.
I am the one who spoiled you, buying you every toy imaginable.
Even when you leave, I keep your room exactly the way you left it,
Clothes piled in a corner, toys heaped around your bed.
There is an emptiness in the house so unbearable -- the silence is
deafening.
I am the nurturer, I am your Savior.

I am invisible in His eyes; I finally understand the meaning to be worthless,
To sit hours upon hours upon days upon months, rotting in my own filth,
To feel the flies buzz around my face and breed in my hair.
My hair is greasy, my skin crawls with the imagined feeling of maggots eating me alive.
I know how devastating the cold can be, to feel my limbs freeze up from the snow.
I know the disgusting feeling of sitting in my own waste, to smell my own urine forever stained into my clothing.
I know the sharp pang of hunger, to taste the only things I can imagine,
the only things I can dream to eat.
While you walk around downtown, you pass by without a second glance.
I mean nothing to you, I am the homeless.
I am the starving, I am the weak.

I finally understand what it is to be isolated even when the whole world
is around me.
I relive every memory in my mind, whether I’m awake or dreaming.
Every minute I live is a nightmare, a thing of the past that swallows me whole.
I see my friends fall down by gunshot day by day, they writhe in pain,
screaming for their mothers and wives.
I see my brothers choke on their own blood; their eyes search me, reaching out for my helping hand.
I see my enemies scream out in their foreign tongue, their bodies torn apart by mines, searching for some humanity in my eyes.
You pat me on the back for a job well done, a job I don’t want to do anymore.
I am a pawn in your hands, the puppet connected to the strings on your fingers.
I am the hero, the heart of a scarred man.