PTSD

Reads: 121  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 24, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 24, 2017

A A A

A A A


when I see you walking down that street,
holes in your socks 
blisters on your feet 
From where you wore that path 
into that there old concrete 
which must have been quite a feat 
with those holes in them their old shoes 
where pebbles they protrude 
and stick into your feet

but this man with greasy hair 
that hasn’t been cut for years 
and the shabby grisly look 
from which his face is stuck 
no possessions in his hands
no one ever hears his voice 
no one ever sees him cry 
in the still of the cold night

Huddled up in shop doorways 
or laid out on a park bench 
for which he doesn’t pay no rent 
he lies still as he can be,
listening on intently 
to the vile words that spill out 
from some peoples vile mouths 
who tell him to get out. move along you dirty tramp

this man who has not eaten for at least 3 days 
isn’t fazed 
he’s used to the look of disgust in people’s eyes 
as they walk on by, in their daily lives 
shop hopping buying all and sundry things 
from a loaf of bread to golden rings 
fancy watches, glitzy shoes 
while this poor old man can’t even buy the basics 
food!!!

This man was once like you 
Even served his country to 
Seen his share of blood and tears 
As he traveled the continents from year to year 
Ate things that would make you puke 
Was taught, stand up straight and salute 
But now he’s back in civvies suffering 
For his sins 
Trying to find his way back home 
From the bottom of his bottle 
Where his memories are suppressed 
From the visions that he dreams 
The things he sees would make you scream

So next time you see a disheveled man 
Doing the best he can 
Spare a little thought 
For the life he had before 
And ask him why he beats the street 
With holes where pebbles protrude 
Where they painfully stick into his feet 
Ask him why he doesn’t eat 
Sleeps under the stars and not in clean sheets
And he will just say, “ I have P.T.S.D 
this is how I cope 

from a disease that makes me feel 
I’d like to swing from my neck with a rope 
or fill my shirt with rocks and go for an extended bath
or slit my wrists and watch my life force drip away 
cause I know tomorrow’ s not going to be a better day
so all I do is pray that I can hold on, just one more day

I don’t want this life no more 
I don’t want the visions in my head 
That I wish that I could put to bed 
I just want one good nights sleep
Where the demons do not creep 
Where they silently visit in my dreams 
Waking me from my deep sleep 
With sweat beads dripping from my head 
From the visions of the demons that want me dead.
that stay constantly in my head
sometimes i just want to be dead!
then i'd be rid of these visions in my head
and at peace with myself instead!


© Copyright 2018 J A OVERTON. All rights reserved.