PTSD The cell I live in is my mind, where I reside, the place I hide. For when the past comes here to stay, I fold away, I hide inside. This cell is dank, it’s walls sweat blood, it’s ceiling crushes from above. The floor is wet, the stench is sweat, this place is lacking warmth, and love. I built this place with my own hand, the reason for to lock away, The light of day. And darkness reigns in this foul place, the flashbacks come, the nightmares stay. For when the past comes round to call, my sanga hides me from the truth. It shelters me from all that hate, it is my only covering roof. And though to all I’m brash and bold, my outer skin seems hard and cold, Reality is a different thing, I feel so weak, so used, So Old. I’ll tell you how this came about, although I really have no doubt, That you already know, Because like me you have this room, the place to go, where you can shout, It came about as I am weak, a person plagued by simple thoughts, That are not simple anymore, they squirm and toss, a hate, of sorts. And when I close my eyes so tight, I see again the shattered forms, Of burning buildings, burning men, in bloody lightning storms. Of screaming children, arms and legs, just lying there, the dawn to find, Of shattered lives, of shattered minds, of shattered hopes, from my own kind. And so my cell protects me from this scene, but in itself provides a place, Where torture rules, the stinging whip, the tears of blood run down my face, For in my mind, I built this place. The brick’s are moulded from my hate, and kiln-fired in the fire of life. The morter mixed from fear of death, and watered down with tears, and strife. So course by course, as years went by, I built this cell, I learned to cry. And when at last my time does come, when I lie down, to wilt and die, Then this fine shelter will collapse, fall over and be turned to dust. For all my fears will go with me, my legacy of brick and rust. My spirit then will fly so free, the past not there to trouble me. I hope. And so to you I say these things, to fellows who have lived like me, To you who’s anguish rules your lives, fear not, For someday we’ll be free. No Wounds upon my body, No scars that you can find, Just hurt from wars fought long ago implanted in my mind No outward signs of injury, No telltale signs of pain, Only flashbacks and the nightmares Time and Time again. But all’s not lost for us old friend There are those that understand Just let them lead us through the darkness Go with them hand in hand P,T.S.D. is a state of the mind, that leaves our minds in a state
Posted on: Sun, 18 Aug 2013 07:12:34 +0000