I grew
up hunting in
the woods with my father
In a little mountain town
not far from here
When I turned six, he gave me my first rifle I
was eight years old when I killed my first
deer
Dad said I had an itchy trigger finger
But we needed meat and he
taught me how to aim
He said if you're gonna kill,
then you better do it cleanly
Or give it up and never hunt
again.
Somehow I barely made
it through high school.
I dreamed about escaping every day.
I couldn't see me working at the prison,
So I joined the army just to get away.
The mountains of
Iraq seemed like my ho metown,
The valleys and the ridges
looked the same.
I knew that I was born to be a soldier,
I figured it was just like hunting game.
I saw him in my scope across the battle I
squeezed the trigger slowly and he fell
But in that moment when I saw him crumble
Something in my soul crumbled as well
The
Bible says that it's a sin to murder,
I figured that in war it was all right.
Always in my dreams I see him falling,
His blood soaks my pillow
every night.
The doctors say that I am post -traumatic
They tell me that with
time the mist will clear
But they don't understand
the things that happen
When you cannot tell a person from
a deer
Some nights I dream I'm
hunting with my father
Some nights I dream they've
sent me back to war
Dad said I had an itchy trigger finger
So I cut it off and I will hunt no more
I cut it off and I will kill no
more
You