Best For:
Generational War Survivors, Anti-Imperialist Creative Radicals, Veteran-Adjacent Advocates, Human-Rights Advocates, People who Want Peace over war, and openminded US citizens sick of being lied to.
Their American Dream Our American Nightmare:
The “American Dream” often comes with a hidden price tag, one printed in a language of “liberation” but paid in the currency of human lives. For those of us born into the shadow of the early 90s, the maps of the Middle East haven’t just been geography. They have been the backdrop of our entire lives. From the “slick” palms of the elite to the “golden sand” in the hair of the innocent, this piece explores the permanent stain left by decades of state-sponsored trauma. It is a look at the “lucrative lies” told to the youth and the “harmful heroism” that leaves our families broken while a billionaire class counts the profit. Also this is my poem for day 78 out of 100 Stained Amber Skin.
We didn’t just inherit a map of borders; we inherited a multiple decade long cycle of broken bodies and exported trauma that the architects of these wars refuse to acknowledge
Stained Amber Skin
Amber drips,
slick in the palms of few men;
Returning,
hand to pocket, counting
blood money.
Amber drips
from their
wallets;
Staining,
all their pockets,
eventually.
Tainting,
their entirety,
oil
blood.
Unbothered the few men seem.
But brown and black bodies
left
in
the
wake
of
the
United States
are worth more
than the
resources you
“free them” for.
Freedom,
bringing bombs
culling
innocent
citizens
is not
democracy.
After,
loved ones
make it home .
Afghanistan.
Iraq.
Iran.
Golden sand
sprinkling,
Strands of disheveled,
hair.
Arms that
Do not
Know how to move
without being …
armed,
quite yet .
Stress etched
into
their core,
muscle
memory
Tainted amber,
drips,
staining the palms of few men,
unable
to hide
their
transgressions,
even after their lifetime ends .
Sending the kids,
barely grown,
after
trauma and death,
often their own
among
potential losses…
serving
lucrative lies,
harmful heroism,
the goal your gain.
Poet’s Note
I was born in 1991, the year the world watched the skies over Baghdad light up. My stepdad, the man who raised me, was a marine in operation “Desert Storm.” I grew up in the ripple effects of that conflict. Just go to school one normal day and find myself in a fourth–grade reading circle when the world shifted again on September 11th.
I watched the cycle reset. As I grew into an adult, it wasn’t my parents‘ generation going off to war. Now it was my friends. I watched them leave for Afghanistan and Iraq, and I watched them come back with “arms that do not know how to move without being armed.” Now, at 34, I am seeing the drums beat for Iran.
True democracy cannot be found in the wake of an airstrike
under a guise of fighting for freedom. However, you can find it is buried under the lucrative lies that prioritize a billionaire’s bottom line over human survival.
I wrote this because I am sick of watching the same “few men,” you know the Cheneys and the big oil guys of the world treat brown and black bodies as collateral for their countries resources. The “Amber” in this poem is the oil they crave and the blood shed in for lies in their wars. Leaving a stain on their legacy that no history book can wash clean.
This is about the trauma and death as a service to the billionaire class, and the disheveled hair of those left in the wake of a democracy that looks a lot like destruction.
The Debt That Outlives Us
We are living through a cycle of “white war” fought for a rich elite who never have to stand in the dropping bombs, raining bullets, or any thing resembling a ware zone themselves. This poem is a rejection of the “harmful heroism” used to recruit “barely grown” kids into a machine designed for gain, not for people.
Key points to remember:
• The Stain is Permanent: The moral “transgressions” of those who profit from war follow them beyond their lifetimes.
• The Cost of “Freedom“: When “democracy” is delivered via bombs, it ceases to be democracy and becomes a culling of the innocent.
• The Cycle of Violence: From pre 1991 to today, the players change, but the “lucrative lies” remain the same, leaving a trail of “muscle memory” trauma in our veterans and a “wake” of destruction abroad.
This isn’t just a poem; it’s a witness statement. We cannot keep “freeing” nations into extinction while our own homes are filled with the ghosts of the wars we’ve already fought.
Join the Conversation
• How has the timeline of the last 30 plus years of conflict shaped your view of “heroism“?
• What are some creative ways we can support the “barely grown” youth to see through the “lucrative lies” of recruitment?
• In your own words, what does “democracy” look like when it isn’t tied to resources?
Drop a comment below and let’s dismantle these narratives together.
Share This Post
If this resonated with you, consider sharing it with:
• Veterans and their families who understand the “muscle memory” of service.
• History buffs and activists who are tired of seeing the same names in the “billionaire class” profiting from global unrest.
• Creatives and poets who believe in using art to call out the “few men” who think they are unbothered by the blood on their hands.
Internal Links
The world burns and we scroll a poem on genocide
stealth safety a poem on trans identity
Say it. Don’t spray it.