Colin F. Jones

(Or The Many?)

So much self-sorrow claimed to be,
tears shed for someone else,
is slowly raising ire in me
that understanding can’t repulse.

It makes me sick all this self-guilt,
these self-satisfying lies,
that dwell on blood that has been spilt,
by another man who dies.

I don’t give a damn how you feel,
because you are still alive,
and because you are you try to steal,
another’s dignity to survive.

If you feel so bad go cut your throat,
or go jump into the sea,
for you are just no antidote,
for a veteran who ails like me.

I recall my mates, those who died,
and I’m f…ing glad it was not me:
but behind their deaths I’ll not hide,
nor exploit their memory.

For my good mates I stand up tall,
and remember them with pride,
though I wouldn’t swap my life at all,
with an unfortunate man who died.

And those good blokes know it too,
and would hate me to the end,
If I were like the bloody few,
who unlike me pretend.

Life goes on and attitudes,
must change to fit the times,
that thoughts are not just platitudes,
writ in morbid rhymes.

We survived because we were not killed,
we got a second chance,
to use our knowledge and our skills,
and with purpose to enhance,
the joy of love goodwill and peace,
instead of selfish tears,
that do nothing more than ensure increase
of unnecessary fears.