PTSD
Pounding through the halls
at all hours of the night;
boots sounding as they fall,
the left one, then the right.
I know that he can't control
his restless wanderings
or his fits without console.
They're simply memories
rising to the surface,
thats what the doctor said,
and he was very certain.
It was all just in his head.
But he hasn't heard the screams
or seen my Father cry;
He hasn't dreamed the dreams
of men gone out to die.
He hasn't carried children
with ribs rising through their skin,
or had to spill the bood of men
and carry on. Pretend.
They call my Dad a hero,
a man who fought for good.
But he doesn't hear them.
He doesn't think he should.
He killed many men.
He did what he was told.
And now the war has ended,
he has to pay the toll.
Now the checks come in the mail
like an apology
for all the blood he was forced to spill
and for his lack of sleep.
And people say I'm lucky,
at least he's still alive.
But that seems pretty funny.
He's very dead inside.
The pounding carries on,
never ceasing to sound.
The man I knew and loved is gone.
He was lost and never found.