what a man I was
when I would crawl on my belly
and work my way down the street
behind the fences and gates
of the neighbourhood houses.
what a tough guy as I ignored warning calls
from my comrades and the gunfire
from my enemies only metres away.
it was easy to carry the imitation
gun and run the hail of bullets
to gain the enemy position.
what a bastard I was
when I didn't care that I had
just blown the head off the kid
who lived next door because
he stood in the way of victory.
down on the floor in the dirt
it didn't seem so bad.
getting hurt didn't seem so bad.
annoying but not bad.
what an easy way out for a man like me
to take it in the chest, lie down
and die,
listen to the sounds of the guns and the kids
before getting up,
brushing myself down
and throwing the weapons into the yard
and entering the house to eat.
what a man I was that I could sleep
soundly in my bed after so much murder.
where is that courage?
where is the ease of the way of things
we knew?
the floor looks closer
and getting hurt hurts.
what a man I was when I was eight years old,
what a child I would like to be now
I am older and the wars seem so much
more real and hateful.