It’s called Post Traumatic
Makes the sameness the same.
Or different, or something else
The cold glass of water
Sometimes they don’t know it’s there
And sometimes they just suffer,
Not knowing what is wrong with them
Coming home is nightmares, loud bangs, and screams
Coming home is laying on a scratchy couch
Talking of things to a stranger who says he can help
Coming home is faking a smile at family reunions
And hoping it’s believable
Coming home is not hurting himself
To fix it, it won’t fix anything
So they tell him.