Tin Soldier

If I don't say his name, maybe, somehow, he's still alive.

Maybe somehow he's still alive.

And I never tell anyone, but I make believe he's still alive by keeping quiet.

He died for nothing. That happens sometimes. And I loved him once. I really loved him once. But the world is so full of pain and I can't understand. I can't get it through my brain. I can never get it through my brain.

War is all for nothing. People die in the end anyway, so what does genocide accomplish but prolonging the grief of the living and the illusion of the dead?

I loved the boy with the bright blue eyes. The boy with the bright blue eyes.

But I think if I blocked the memory out, I'd go looking for it again because I'd feel the empty space. Which is worse? Ignorance or knowledge? Ignorance isn't always bliss. At least for me.

So I'm being like a book tonight: vague until the end when all the pieces come together. Unfortunately, the end isn't soon, so no big picture.

Bus bombs. Those get me more than anything. I see out of someone else's eyes when I see one of those or hear about one of those. Because maybe if I keep seeing, it'll keep him alive for one more moment. But it doesn't.

I look anyway.
I look anyway.