Let me tell you about a man that died in June,
Too young to die, with a life not yet lived,
I tried to help, but could not be revived,
Just like that he was gone. Far too soon.
I close my eyes and I am there,
Stay with me. Hold on. Don't Give up.
But each breath poured him more to Death's cup,
I'm still here. Why? This isn't fair.
Let me tell you of a man who died in July.
He smiled and laughed as young always do,
A life planned, that he'll never go through,
Oh my friend, 19 years old is too young to die.
It was a bomb that blew his truck sky high.
Some said he was dead before it landed,
Others say she screamed as it burned. Awful images are branded,
Why not me? Why you? Why?
Let me tell you of a man that killed himself in May,
He was full of wit and sarcastic remarks,
A battle buddy for any day,
Without bitterness or its marks.
He had a new baby and a fiancé,
but wars stark image filled his brain,
He must of felt it was too painful to remain,
How do I respond? What am I supposed to say?
These were better men than I,
Yet they are gone and I am here still,
I can not understand just why.
Is it worth? I have nil.
Better men have gone before me, and go even now,
I want to make it right, but I don't know how,
There's a question I have to ask, but I fear,
Why am I still here?