PTSD

Pictures of mass destruction,

Orbiting my crushed skull.

Screaming images of a violent past,

Too realistic to ignore,

Too painful to forget.

Raining blood of innocent children

As they cry and beg for help,

Until I witness their final breath,

Muted by silent cries of death.

All tangled inside, my strangled mind,

Torturing my days,

Itching like demons, scratching my veins,

Cutting my soul while I cry out in pain.

Sleep becoming impossible,

To bear the burdens of trauma,

Rushing through me like ghosts,

Evanescent,

Saturating,

Strangulating my every breath like demons,

Drowning

Inside my fucked up mind,

Seeking flickers of light from the darkness,

Overwhelming my senses,

Raping my calm,

Defying my humanness,

Encapsulating echoes from my painful past.

Relentless

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This poem was heavily influenced by my personal battle with PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder).

Having spent thirty years of my working life in the emergency services and witnessed untold amounts of trauma, I realise that the chances of a complete recovery, despite multiple treatments, are small.

In my most difficult moments, however, I turn to poetry.

I find that poetry has a remarkable way of pulling demons from the subconscious mind onto the page, allowing me the space to breathe again.

Thanks for reading.