War

War

I’m young but I have seen far too much

The bloodshed and suicide bombings and guns

And the weeping mothers

Mourning the loss of their sons.

I don’t have a lot, just my personal hell to bear

Tending to the soldiers with missing limbs and fingers

I remember my man lost in the war

We had two hours before duty called and yet, his touch still lingers

People divided by religion, and politics

It makes me hate it here, it’s just so sad

I haven’t been home in months

I miss Cookie, I miss dear old mum and dad

Sometimes I wish I weren’t an army doctor

That I could quit and start over

But if we all turn away, who stays to face mass murder

I pray it ends as I hold on to his dog tag like it’s my lucky clover.

(PS: I tried very hard to not talk about Jihad and religion – both of which I feel very strongly about – and then my post turned into a headless chicken hunt. I’m so sorry but war poetry is freaking hard to do.)

Vendetta

Vendetta

Woke up late this morning, my alarm never went off.

Shoved a granola bar down my throat and rushed to Starbucks.

Walked into a stranger and spilled my boss’s coffee all over myself.

Overworked and underpaid for someone that happened to be overpaid and underworked.

Walked into office with my hair a mess, my shirt all stained and a headache.

Twenty two year old intern, new on the job, on the lowest rung of the food chain.

Doing as told, and then bam, the printer broke.

Tried to fix it. But in vain.

The boss gave me hell, she never showed me any mercy.

I ended up working alone that night, cold and hungry.

The coffee machine refused to work for me.

It’s like my office has a vendetta against me.