A Poem


It’s called Post Traumatic

Stress disorder

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.

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