Writings of a Warrior Poet

Peace is not mere absence; it is the presence of something profound.
It is the tranquil lake reflecting the sky, undisturbed by ripples.
It is the gentle breeze that whispers through ancient trees, carrying secrets of serenity.
Peace is the refuge we seek when the world’s storms rage around us.

But can one truly claim peace without acknowledging its counterpart?
Is it enough to be harmless, like a lamb grazing in a meadow, unaware of the wolf’s shadow?
Perhaps not.

Violence, too, has its facets.
It is not solely the brute force that shatters bones or tears apart cities.
Violence can be subtle, a word laced with venom, a glance that wounds deeper than any blade.
It resides within us, dormant yet potent, waiting for the right spark.

To be capable of violence is to recognize our humanity, the raw, unfiltered essence that pulses through our veins.
It is the same force that fuels creation, for every birth carries the echo of cosmic explosions.
Violence is the shadow cast by our potential, the yin to peace’s yang.

To be peaceful is not to deny our capacity for violence; it is to wield it consciously.
Like a skilled swordsman who knows the blade’s weight and edge, we must understand our own darkness.

True peace emerges when we integrate these seemingly opposing forces.
It is the lotus blooming in the murky waters, a symbol of enlightenment rising from the mud.
We become peaceful warriors, not denying our strength but channeling it toward compassion, justice, and healing.

As a veteran, I have walked the razor’s edge, the battlefield where violence and peace collide.
My service dog, Ruger, loyal and steadfast, provides tactile solace, grounding me in moments of turmoil.
In my writings, I have woven threads of vulnerability and resilience, bridging the gap between heartache and hope.

Remember, peace is not passivity; it is the courage to transform violence into understanding.
As Tyler Childers sings, “I swear I’ve seen the devil in my daddy’s eyes, but I’ve also seen an angel in the light.”
Both exist within us, the devil and the angel, the violence, and the peace.

I have learned, I must embrace my capacity for both.
Be the calm before the storm and the storm itself.
For in this delicate balance, I find the essence of being truly peaceful—a beacon of light in a world that often confuses harmlessness with harmony.

I had been home nearly eleven years
before Kamryn took her first breath
and I still hadn't unpacked.
Not my bags.
Not my war.
Not the silence I'd weaponized to stay functional.
I wasn’t dodging bullets anymore,
but I was dodging sleep,
dodging closeness,
dodging myself.
They said I was home.
But no one ever pointed to where that was.
I knew how to clear buildings.
I didn’t know how to sit still in a quiet room
without pacing it like a fire team stack.
I learned to fold laundry with the same precision I folded trauma.
Crisp edges. Tidy piles.
No mess in sight,
but nothing actually clean either.
I lived a lot of life before her.
Jobs. Mistakes. Lovers I kept at arm’s length
even when I held them close.
I played the part.
Laughed on cue.
Went through all the motions of normal.
But I was still deployed
just to a battlefield no one else could see.
And then she came.
Not like a rescue.
More like a reckoning.
Kamryn didn’t make me whole.
She made me honest.
For the first time in over a decade,
I had something in my arms
that didn’t flinch when I flinched.
That didn’t see the ghosts
and didn’t need to.
She just needed me.
So I started to unpack.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
One buried belief at a time.
That I had to be invulnerable.
That pain made me broken.
That love made me weak.
She taught me what armor couldn’t:
That real strength is the ability to stay
not just in the fight,
but in the room,
in the moment,
in her life.
I had a head start on healing.
But I was still lost until I heard her heartbeat
and realized mine hadn’t stopped—it had just gone underground.

In the shadowy trenches of a mind once bright,
Where memories fight a never-ending plight,
I lay in silence, a weary soul's lament,
A dance with darkness, a battle without bent.

The war is over, the battles are through,
Yet here I am, in a war zone anew.
My bed, a battleground, my sleep, a lie,
Where whispers of the night pierce through the sky.

Combat PTSD, a ghostly sentinel,
Guarding my thoughts, a tale to tell,
Of sights unseen, of sounds unheard,
Of moments frozen, in a heartless word.

Insomnia, the cloak that wraps me tight,
In a prison of the darkest night,
Her whispers taunt, her embrace a snare,
A silent scream, a desolate prayer.

And then the lucid night terrors come,
To haunt my slumber, a fiery sum.
Where dreams are bullets and fears take flight,
In the theater of the damned, where I fight.

The faces morph, the scenes intertwine,
With reality's edge, forever fine,
I'm back in hell, the battle's rage,
Where every breath is a silent wage.

My eyes wide open, yet I cannot move,
A marionette in a macabre groove,
The shadows play, the demons jest,
While my soul is put through a grueling test.

I am the soldier, I am the war,
The battleground is where I've been before.
But now the fight is not out there in the light,
It's here in the dark, where fear takes flight.

Each dawn is a victory, a moment to hold,
A brief reprieve, a story untold,
But as nightfall descends, the battle is drawn,
I'll fight till the end, till the break of dawn.

For I am not lost, though I may stray,
In the labyrinth of the mind's decay,
I'll find my peace, in the quietude,
Where the warrior's heart is understood.

The nights are long, the days are hard,
But in the shadows, I'll make my stand,
With every breath, every tear I shed,
I'll conquer the fears that lie in bed.

For this is the fight that's truly mine,
Where valor is not measured by time,
And though the scars may never fade,
I'll rise from the ashes, unafraid.

The dawn will come, it always does,
And with it, a chance to live because,
In the throes of darkness, I've found my light,
A beacon of hope, a warrior's might.

Life with PTSD, insomnia's grip,
And lucid terrors that never quit,
Is a journey fraught with pain and fear,
But in the silence, I find my cheer.

I am the storm, the warrior's son,
The one who fights, the battle never won,
But in the echoes of each scream,
I am the dawn, the sun's esteemed.

So let the night come with all its might,
For I am ready to continue the fight,
Against the demons that plague my sleep,
I am the guardian, the watch I'll keep.

The clock doesn’t tick in here.
Time drips instead—slow, thick, indifferent.
Morning doesn’t break—it limps in,
Dragging yesterday's boots behind it.

I stare at the ceiling like it might offer a map
out of my own head.
No such luck.
Only static up there.
Only silence.

They tell me I survived.
But they weren’t there at 2:47 a.m.
when I fought phantoms no one else could see
and lost again.

I don’t need a medal.
I need sleep.
I need the smell of cordite to leave my nose.
I need one goddamn night where my daughter's voice
isn't drowned out by the screams I keep locked in my ribs.

The clock doesn’t tick.
It just drips,
until I drown
in the space between now and never.

Leadership is a privilege earned in blood,
not a title pinned by policy.
I led because I bled.
Because others bled for me.

You don't teach this in a classroom.
You learn it when your decisions carve futures.
When one bad call means a folded flag.

Tactical leadership is not about barking orders—
it's about silence.
The kind before breaching.
The kind that speaks louder than words.

I led from the front,
not for glory,
but so I’d be the first to absorb the consequence.
If the mission went south,
I wanted them to step over me,
not retreat behind me.

I lead still.
Now with words instead of rifles,
but the weight is the same.
I write for the ones still in it—
the ones counting exits
in restaurants
because old habits never retired.

Tactical leadership never ends.
It just changes battlefield.

Nothing stays.
Not the pain.
Not the joy.
Not the shape of the clouds overhead.

Even mountains crumble in time.
Even scars fade to memory.

This is not to dismiss your suffering—
it's to anchor you in truth:
You are not your worst day.
You are not the war still echoing in your chest.
You are the breath you just took.
The one after that.
The one you'll take when you finish reading this.

Everything ends.
Especially the parts you think never will.
That includes the hurt.
That includes the numb.

Message received?
Good.
Now stand up.

In the silence of the night,
I hear the war whisper.
Not loud like it was—
but soft, like it misses me.

My daughter breathes steady in the next room.
She doesn't know the names I still carry.
Doesn't know why I flinch
when the dog barks too sharp.

In the silence of the night,
I sort through the pieces.
I rebuild without instructions.
I hold each broken part to the light
and decide if it still belongs.

The silence is not empty.
It’s a negotiation.
A battlefield of thoughts
where I refuse to surrender
what's left of me
to what tried to take all of me.

In the silence of the night,
I find the edges of peace.
I trace them,
slowly,
until morning.

If I were to die tomorrow,
Tell her I didn’t leave because of her.
Tell her that the war caught up, even when I outran it for years.
Tell her I wanted to stay.
That every breath I ever fought for after combat,
I fought to stay near her.
Tell her that my silence was never a lack of love,
But the only armor I had left.
Tell her I was trying—every goddamn day—to be a man worthy of her trust.
Tell her to write. To scream. To cry. To create.
That nothing she feels is wrong.
And that healing is not betrayal.
Tell her I saw the stars in her eyes, and that was enough light to last a thousand dark nights.
Tell her I didn’t give up.
I just got tired.
Tell her she saved me, again and again,
Even when I couldn’t say it.
Tell her she was never a burden,
She was my reason.
Tell her to forgive me,
And to never forget me.
But more than that—
Tell her to live.
Tell her to keep going.
Tell her I’m proud.
Always.

If you're reading this, it's because you’ve climbed far enough out to see the light again—but not so far that you’ve forgotten the dark.
And I need you to remember it. Because what happened down there wasn’t just pain.
It was truth. And truth, when seen clearly, is a kind of salvation.

I descended into that place not by choice, but by gravity—the slow pull of exhaustion,
guilt, and the unspoken weight of all the things I tried to carry alone. There’s no map in that depth. No guiding hand.
Just silence so thick it starts to feel like judgment. But what I found there… wasn’t punishment. It was clarity.

At the very bottom—below memory, below language—was a pressure I can only describe as absolute.
No lies survived there. No armor held. All the narratives I’d built to keep going… they dissolved.
All that was left was the raw ache of being. And then something else emerged.

Not a voice. A presence. It didn’t say much. Just this:
“You’re not done.”
Not as a command. Not some rah-rah survival mantra. It was deeper than willpower. More enduring than grit. It felt like truth.
Like the kind you don’t argue with because it’s not asking for belief—it is.

As I climbed out, layer by layer, every scar I touched had a story I’d buried.
There was the anger I thought I’d burned off long ago—still smoldering.
The love I never let myself accept because I thought it made me weak.
The moment I first mistook silence for safety. All of it was still there, waiting to be acknowledged.

And here’s the part you need to remember:
It didn’t break me.
Facing it didn’t destroy me.
It relieved me.

You don’t come back from a place like that unchanged.
And you shouldn’t. If you ever find yourself tempted to pretend it didn’t happen, or to minimize what you endured in that depth—don’t.
That dark was part of your becoming. It didn’t give you answers.
It made space for the right questions.

Now that you’re closer to the surface, where the light begins to reflect again,
I need you to remember: that first light? It doesn’t warm you. It mirrors you. It shows you who you are after the descent.
And you’ll want to look away, because the man staring back will seem unfamiliar.
But look anyway. See him.

Because he remembers.
Because he didn’t run.
Because you didn’t.

And that? That’s how I know you can keep going. Not just because you climbed. But because you listened on the way up. You let it change you.
Never forget what you touched in the dark.
It speaks a language the surface never will.

In the silence of the night, where shadows fall,
We stand together, answering the call.
Through fire and storm, in lands afar,
We forge a bond, stronger than war.

In whispered breaths and silent nods,
We share our fears, we trust our gods.
With every step, in every fight,
We hold each other, through darkest night.

Our hearts beat as one, in sync we move,
In the chaos of battle, our courage we prove.
Through blood and sweat, through pain and tears,
We stand united, facing our fears.

In the quiet moments, when the world is still,
We remember the fallen, our spirits they fill.
With honor and pride, we carry the flame,
Of brotherhood eternal, in freedom’s name.

No words can capture, no song can sing,
The depth of our bond, the strength it brings.
For in the heart of every soldier, true,
Lives the spirit of brotherhood, forever anew.

Through deserts vast and jungles dense,
We march together, our will immense.
In every mission, in every land,
We fight as one, a steadfast band.

Our eyes speak volumes, our silence loud,
In the face of danger, we stand unbowed.
With every dawn, with every dusk,
Our bond grows stronger, built on trust.

In the heat of battle, in the cold of night,
We find our strength, in each other’s sight.
For in the heart of war, where chaos reigns,
Our brotherhood is what remains.

When the smoke clears and the battle’s done,
We stand together, as one.
For in our hearts, a fire burns bright,
A brotherhood forged in the darkest night.

Through the years and miles apart,
We carry each other, in our heart.
For once a brother, always so,
In the heart of a soldier, this truth they know.

Speak a word and I will hold it,
Turn it over in calloused hands,
Taste the grit between each vowel
like dust clinging to boots
from a war I haven’t quite left.

I don’t need sermons or speeches—
Just a single syllable with weight.
Something dense enough to remind me
this fight isn’t over
but I’m still in it.

Not for glory.
Not for vengeance.
For the quiet contract made
between fathers and their children—
To show up.
To not disappear when it gets hard.
To bleed if needed,
but never to vanish.

Give me a word and I will sharpen it
until it becomes a blade I can wield
against the dark between my ribs.
The kind that creeps in
after everyone’s gone to sleep.

I will etch that word into memory,
hold it in the small moments—
when she smiles,
when I flinch,
when I almost don’t pick up the phone
but do anyway.

A word can anchor.
Can echo across valleys
of self-doubt and silence.
It doesn’t have to be profound.
Just true.

So speak it,
whatever it is.
I’m listening.
I’ve always been listening.
And I’m ready to turn your word
into light.

In the quiet of midnight, shadows stretch long,
Whispers of battles past echo in my song.
Echoes of courage mix with whispers of fear,
Yet in this silence, my strength remains clear.

Through the turmoil and night, I stand tall,
A warrior's heart, defiant, heeds the call.
In each breath, resilience softly takes flight,
Braving the darkness, I ignite the light.

Each memory haunts, each nightmare I chase,
But I find my peace in this still, sacred space.
My pen, a weapon, my words, a shield,
In the face of the terror, I refuse to yield.

I write my battles, I scribble my pain,
Turning my struggles into verses, like rain.
Each stanza a step, each rhyme a retreat,
A path through the shadows, guiding my feet.

Though the night is long and shadows are deep,
I hold onto hope, the strength I must keep.
For in these lines and in my mind's eye,
I find a reason to never say die.

The Night I Don’t Wake From

I haven’t slept in three rotations.  
Not real sleep.  
Not the kind that mends anything.  

I drift into the ambush,  
not knowing if I’ll claw my way out.  
The same sand. The same blood.  
The same radio hissing names that don’t get answered.  

I flinch before the blast now,  
like muscle memory’s trying to warn me  
that the world’s about to tilt again.  

It always tilts.  

Kamryn’s voice—  
the only tether to this side of the wire—  
can’t reach me here.  
Not when the walls sweat diesel  
and the ceiling drips with men I couldn’t save.  

I walk perimeter in my own home,  
hand grazing the corners  
like clearing a room.  
No weapon. No armor.  
Just a heartbeat  
louder than gunfire  
and the ache of knowing I’m still here  
when others aren’t.  

I scream into the pillow  
so she doesn’t hear me die again.  

And when the dark laughs,  
I laugh with it—  
not because it’s funny,  
but because I’ve forgotten  
what silence used to sound like  
before the war installed speakers in my skull.  

This is where I live now.  
In the breach.  
In the memory.  
In the breath between trigger squeeze  
and impact.  

And every morning  
I check my watch—  
not for time,  
but to prove to myself  
that I made it through  
another  
goddamn  
night.