This is actually my poem. It's about the time where I had to tell one of my subordinates in the Air Force that his friend was in a plane crash in Djibouti and was killed. We were in Afghanistan at the time, and I took his flight because he was in no shape to fly that night, even though he tried.

I used to feel like suicide was a way to finish the war for me, but I couldn't do it because of my obligations to my family. Events like this are powerful, and as the 'experienced mentor' at the ripe age of 26, I wasn't prepared for how much it would rock me. I told my wife about this particular event one day, and she made me feel better, but it took a long time to get where I am now.

This is part of a larger series of 25 poems about the war that I've written for an art exhibition I'm working on. Each poem is preceded by an artistic interpretation of the poem created by a non-veteran, and each poem is followed by an interpretation created by a veteran. I'm still looking for submissions at this point, so feel free to PM if you know anyone who might like to participate. I'll post another poem tomorrow and so on until the 25 are out in the world so that more people can get involved if they'd like. The idea of the project as a whole is to compare the differences between the two interpretations, and to illustrate the transformative effect of war upon people. It is a response to the fact that very very few people fight on behalf of many, and to send them to do that fighting is a serious request that should be taken with solemn knowledge of what you are asking.