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Leaving Home and Not Just Names on a Wall
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I live with a Vietnam veteran.
He went to war; I didn't.
He has technicolor flashbacks; I don't.
The men he lost follow him everywhere;
they surround me, too.
When he stays up all night, vigilant in silence,
so do I.
When he dilutes his pain with alcohol, I do, too.
And when he explodes in rage, after dropping a spoon,
or spilling his coffee, I implode in fear.
I am not sure who the enemy is,
but I know the War is real.
I live with a Vietnam vet
whose pain I have learned to feel.
A proud Marine in the Corp
trained well to fight the war.
I fought the war in Viet Nam.
We tried to be brave for Dad, and Mom.
They sent me to the D.M.Z.
another grunt, an f.n.g.
the sun was hot the jungle green.
Most of us were just nineteen.
I'm proud to be a fighting man.
To serve my Country on foreign sand.
We fought the rain, the bugs, the N.V.A.
A noble cause, or so they say.
We followed orders, we asked not Why?
I watched our men do and die.
I came home....but not the same.
A bitter person somewhat insane.
They sent me home half a man.
I lost my legs in Vietnam.
A wound that will last all my days.
Let's not forget the M.I.A.'s.
I'm proud to be a fighting man.
To have served my country on foreign sand.
P.F.C. Walt Henriksen
U.S.M.C. 68-69
(Jarhead85)
