WWII Letter

My Dearest Valentine,
    
    Not a single day passes by, in which I do not dream of your company. I long for another kiss, another touch. The war treats us the worst it can. Every night I lay dormant, but not asleep, for I can here the planes soaring above, as we hide for our dear lives. You are the last thing I hold onto, because, darling, reality is so far for comfort. We'd all agree that sleep is too close for comfort, anyway. It seems that nothing else matters. I swear that every puddle of water, every brass casing from our bullets, every knife... I se your reflection dearest. But alas, the torment does not stop there. In the midst of war, I swear I see you. Like my dreams, sometimes I fight the urge to chase after you. I am told I must focus on the task at hand. Remember that the reason I can to this place was to keep you safe. You tol me before I left, that any man or boy could have taken my place, but no man will ever take the place of your protected as long as I'm alive. Above all else, remember that I love you. I lack to resources and the time to keep writing, but I will always be with you in your heart. I will see you soon. I count every second away from you. We'll get married as soon as I get back. I miss you.

                                           Yours truly,
                                           Mason Woodruff




Mason Woodruff
Age: 18
DOB: January 10, 1924
Enlist Date: January 23, 1942
Rank: Private


Ms. Valentine Gardener,

     After studying our records on previous whereabouts, I must regretfully inform you that Private Andrew Mason, nor his platoon have checked in at their Rendez vous point. I must therefore, by the evidence of the United States Army, declare Mr. Mason

K.I.A.

Our condolences go out to you Ms. Valentine. Your fiancé with forever be honored as a hero, and will be known by the citizens of the United States for making his sacrifice to aid the Union it their attempts to keep our homeland safe.

                                             Sincerely,
                                             Gen. Geroge S. Patton

Breach in My Armor

I felt every imperfection on the dull knife. I felt every imperfection making this world a million more times less appealing to stay in. A lack of beauty. The precise outlines of the mountains, or the waves crashing out against each other in the vast blue only serve the purpose of providing a place for my blood to flow. This temptation has haunted me for weeks since the last time we met. I reject sympathy. I reject company, even in the midst of my loneliness. Sometimes I have to bleed to know that I'm alive an have a soul. Other times I feel like a ghost, but not the only one. I see others flaunting their dull gray colors. Each color reflection the poison choking nearly every living ounce of their joy. It makes it o' so painful to crack that smile long enough to put out our facades and fool only the ones who subconsciously choose to be ignorant. They choose it when they wake up, and I don blame them one bit, because misery loves company.  Living only seems like a death march now, while I march to my own drum, with my own gun pointed to my back. Because every second, EveryLetterHere is one more moment closer to my demise. My soul will carry on, but I'm so ready to leave this vessel, when the time comes.

What Do You See?

If my life was a mere ink blot, I wonder what they'd all see.
Right now, I have more problems than I can deal with at one time.
Fighting off one demon, while roughly 4 others take up the rear.
I hope I'm not rendered helpless, but the loneliness I feel, the pain...
It's overbearing.
I can't simply numb it mentally, because it is to much to sweep under the carpet.
Big enough to crowd my vision to where I see nothing else.
Quite simply small enough for outer people to either ignore, or miss all together.
I'm drowning in my own blood, it seems.
Though I do not write in ink, now, I have injected myself with the pen so that I may bleed lyrics and poems.
My cynical veiw tortures me like no other.
The predecessor, the one who once lived in my mind, has nearly vanished.
My joyful self, almost gone with the wind.
In the purgatory we call life, I await the day when my mind has endured enough.
The strain is great.
I grow weary.
I have been at this for some time now.
This life is hard to manage.