It was Always a Joke that I was an Old Man

She asked me how I felt.
So I made an attempt
to plunge into my soul,
to come up with something poetic
But all I could say
was bad.

What I found there in that
deep down place,
was an old withered man
who claimed to have lived through
three world wars.

He recounted to me
stories of the battles he’d lost,
of shots to the chest,
and knocks to the head.

The medals
that adorned his chest
were for moments of bravery,
where he held onto everything
and somehow pulled through.

Pictures of parades
and parties
that were thrown
after long rides home.
Always with different beautiful girl
at his side.

He showed me maps
of the bridges he burned
and of the places they once led to.

And how this fight would be one more
he’d have to walk away from.

This was the first poem I wrote for a class I took my senior year of college.  Most of these early posts will be from that period actually.  It had been about 6 months since I had dealt with a bout of severe depression and was finally start to write again.  Between how I felt most days and the haze of medication, nothing seemed to flow.  Or mainly wasn’t good.

I remember getting the comment on this one how I was expressing I was an old soul.  What I was going for was kind of along those lines but more of being a worn soul.  One that’s had to fight for the highs in life and bears the scars to show it.