I am from worn, empty boots –
night Skypes riddled with echoes of gunfire,
looking up to patches of past accomplishments, causing speculation in my spirit.
I am from a hollow home –
happiness, hollow words,
endless fears of loss and hollow promises
of awaited homecomings.
I am from honor and selfless service –
heroic stories and scars to back them,
surrounded by saints.
I am from empty stands at sporting events –
care packages with handwritten letters,
pathetic attempts to feel close,
recorded messages for a voice of confidence.
I am from swallowed pain –
stolen childhood memories in the name of freedom,
the pressures of manhood but unable to swing a bat.
I am from conflicting pain and discontent
for those who overlook their heroes at home,
silence disallowing progress,
disorderly actions for help to no avail.
I am from worn, empty boots –
night Skypes riddled with the echoes of gunfire,
looking up to patches of past accomplishments, causing speculation in my spirit.