This is the fifth page of my poems.  
Please note this material is copywrited.  
To use it elsewhere you must at least be 
honest and mention that it is mine.
Do not change the content.
Some material is graphic in content and
not suitable for everyone, where possible
they have been edited.
  Thank you.
  Harry H. Smith

You see it in the paper,
     You hear it on T.V.;
The war is supposedly over,
     How can this still be?

What about those lost soldiers
     Whose families strive to cope,
Finding it harder and harder
     To kindle the fires of hope?

What about those missing in America,
     Here's a new meaning to M.I.A.;
Those who physically came home
     But are mentally gone each day?

What about those with wounds so deep
     That show no visible scar,
Home some twenty odd years
     And still a Prisoner of War?

I am a survivor,
I've survived through the years,
No matter what I must do, 
I do so without tears.

No matter how cold,
Or hard I have to be,
The instinct to survive, 
Courses strongly within me.

The power of hate,
Helps to keep me strong,
And hate is what it is,
When someone does me wrong.

If it ever comes down to it,
If it's either you or me,
There's no question in my mind,
The survivor is what I'll be.

No idea of what lay ahead,
No way to count the wounded and dead.

No place to run, no place to hide,
No place to feel safe inside.

No blaring trumpets, no marching
bands,
Just madness and death, hand in hand.

No way to forget the things we've done,
No way to retrace the road we've come.

No way to restore the lives laid waste,
No ridding of evil summoned in haste.