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john-f-mccullaghPoems
I have bad dreams. They come, unbidden, into my room at night. They pass through the maze of my alcoholic daze; They take me back, Back to a dusty desert road; Our convoy is headed towards Mosul. But we never make it there: The Humvee is upended by an eardrum shattering blast. I am falling. I see you are screaming but there is no sound.. Blackness. I died three times on the medivac copter But the Corpsman kept bringing me back. I have bad dreams In them I see the faces of the dead, They are the faces of my friends; My friends, for whom I mourn Until this heart becomes a stone.
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Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
HEART LIKE A STONE
I have bad dreams. They come, unbidden, into my room at night. They pass through the maze of my alcoholic daze; They take me back, Back to a dusty desert road; Our convoy is headed towards Mosul. But we never make it there: The Humvee is upended by an eardrum shattering blast. I am falling. I see you are screaming but there is no sound.. Blackness. I died three times on the medivac copter But the Corpsman kept bringing me back. I have bad dreams In them I see the faces of the dead, They are the faces of my friends; My friends, for whom I mourn Until this heart becomes a stone.
A tale about post traumatic stress disorder, part of the price paid by soldiers in the cause of freedom. These are the wounds you do not see.
#disorder#stress#pst#traumatic
john-f-mccullagh
Written by
john-f-mccullagh
63/M/American
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
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