I watched a bug crawl across my hand
As I snuck a peak away from the scope
There was no time to think or mope
When I thumbed the bug into the sand
And watched him die without a stand
But he screamed “I’d rather have the rope!”
How has this killing turned into dope?
Is this my forever brand?
And as I left the war, I found what was lost
A creature fear that turned me off
To feelings of love and empathy.
A brain I never knew had been washed
Was then nourished by drowning in a trough
Of hate and dread. I was no longer empty.
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