Iambic Pentameter Poem
Four years old, my mother told me "go play outside"
Cardboard box of full plastic, brown, gray, and green
Tiny people on my sidewalk, scattered far and wide,
The gray suffered heavy casualties, the green very few.
Eighteen years old, my orders stated "Activated for duty"
Training is done; I'm more than ready to go.
It's hard to sit and wait, I send my mother a
Copy of my tin-type, courage and musket in hand.
Twenty years old, I begged "I have to get out"
The war drove me crazy, I can't take this anymore
Days the fighting is too brutal, nights are a sleepless hell
I'll never again see home, training kicks in but,
Experience is like an arch where through I see my death.
I didn't bargain for this, I thought I was fighting for freedom
Not this piece of land.