A Painted Box

For years away from my family,
I fought with others across the shore.
We fought for honor and glory,
we fought for freedom, honor, and more.
At night we would sleep in the bushes,
covered by leaves and grass.
Sometimes I lay there thinking,
about the home far away from my grasp.
I went there with pride and honor,
with youth and innocence to.
Scared and afraid I fought hard,
as my country had asked of me to.
At times with no understanding,
especially when a friend I had made died.
Why were we there and fighting ,
in those jungles those bushes and vines?
Still we did as we were expected,
we fought for freedom and rights.
We fought for our lives every second,
and we'd pray for a glimpse of some light.
In the darkness now I can still see the horrors,
the faces of thousands who died.
And how we came home to the anger,
and as country that for us never cried.
Our honor we were stripped of,
I can look at no one head high.
The promises made by our country,
were erased when the ink had dried.
Today I'm sick and I'm hungry,
and my home's in the alley out back.
I live in an old  cardboard box that I've painted.
I'm ashamed of living like that.
I went and I fought for my country,
I lost my friends, family and pride.
You see I came back to find I was abandoned,
degraded spit on,  they lied.
those promises they made now forgotten,
like soldiers who fought and died.
Like those left to live in dark alleys,
invisible to their country they cry.
Now when I find myself weeping,
for the friends I lost in the war.
Sometimes I think they were lucky,
never touched by the hatred and scorn.
They died still with their honor and glory,
remembered by a wall made of black.
They never lived in an alley,
in an old cardboard box painted like that.