Where do I start?... Its taken me over fourty years to write this


Half a bottle of scotch taken each night to drown out the fears
the heartrending sights
Yeah half a bottle is just about right to dull the dreams and the nightmares that still linger
PTSD they call it this day, councelling given to help them get through
what they did see, things they did do
I remember clearly after such a time being told I wasn't a soldier I wasnt a man for being sick with fear, tears in my eyes at the bloodied remains close to my side.
Yeah well I was a soldier but not yet a man, at 19 my life had hardly begun but I still had to survive at the point of a gun
Yeah half a bottle of scotch is the crutch I have found because I'm still alive... Not just another name on a hole in the ground
thousands of miles from home.
Patrolling the paths in the in a land burnt and harsh not knowing what would come, the bullet the bomb or mayber the mine placed or shot by the oft unseen had
OK so I still did my bit in spreading the ****.... Yes I've had their blood on my hands but I still regret the things that I did in that harsh barren land.
Did I hate them? Those men who killed the ones I called friends. No they were only doing what they thought was right in protecting their home and their lands
Yeah so half a bottle of scotch is the friend I now have, it helps to stifle the dreams of the places I saw, the things that I saw and also the things that I did.

It's the sweet smell of your hair
The sound of your voice
I would grow old with you
If I was given the choice

It's the touch of your hand
The look in your eyes
Hold hands on a blanket
And watch the stars in the sky

The smile on your face
Your comforting laugh
Woman I love all of you
I wouldn't settle for half

This is just one small part
Of all the things that I see
You've gone straight to my heart
The way I want it to be.

Your words are warm
but there's a sense
of coldness, clearness
between us.

We're frozen shut;
both world-weary
holding each other's
icicle hands

unable to thaw
but freeze together
a blanket of frost
between us.

I'm a closet romantic.
Constantly
Writing poetry
About beautiful boys.
But if you talk to me
Face to face
I'll deny that is this the case.

I can't let people know my weakness.