I’m not a morning person. It takes me hours to get up and get going. Part of the reason I’m waking up so early is to be ready for the day by the time the rest of the world is prepared to start rolling.
I mentioned how impressed I was by his writing skills and soon learned we could relate to a lot of things that we had experienced.
The ability to share the work of another Veteran is so humbling and I’m honored to share this piece. I read this poem and was left speechless. Mykel’s ability to articulate his feelings and confront the issues going on inside the Veteran community left me in tears. It hit home because I’ve felt these feelings of despair. But, we’ve weathered that storm.
I felt a deep responsibility to use my platform to share this with others. Hopefully, someone experiencing these things knows they don’t have to go it alone.
𝙀𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙞𝙙𝙚!
Morning Regimen
By: Mykel Townsend
I awake
I do not rise
My eyes open to a dimly-lit room
All too familiar to this imprisoned mind
This decrepit body
Every muscle and ligament scream
In excruciating pain
My eyes burn with the sting of the
Previous night & the ‘39s whiskey bender
The smell lingers in the air
It was the same smell that once lingered
With the stench of smoke and piss and
Burning flesh beginning to blacken and curl
I roll over
My trembling hand searches in the darkness
A worn red oak handle with the notorious
10th Mountain Division Unit Crest
Finely etched into its grooves
Immortalized
My mouth forms a hollow oval as the cold
Steel breaks the seal of my pursed lips
The tip of the .45 caliber Remington
1911 R1 rests against my teeth
My ears begin to ring
The way they once did
When the sun was hot and the air burned my skin
And the mountains in Afghanistan
And the open desert of Iraq
Sent bullets and missiles and rockets at me
An invisible enemy
The weight of the gun is finally realized
As my thumb cocks the hammer back
My finger slides effortlessly
Into the trigger
Well
Resting gently on the deeply engraved
Cross-hatching
As it has done every morning since I
Have
Returned
To a house no longer a home
To a life no longer my own
My existence
The line between life and death is half
A second and six inches away
A 220 Grain Hollow
Point round patiently waiting
To bury itself in my brain
I can’t bring myself to do it
Tears begin
Streaming
Down
My
Face
This is the only way
Removing the pistol from my mouth I cast
It into the darkness
Dry my watery eyes
I stand
Dress
And scorn myself for such utter
Incompetence
