You ask me what is wrong,
When you see the explosions behind my eyes,
Staring out at a landscape that's not there.
Hearing gunshots that aren't there,
And screams of men long dead.

I brush it off sometimes,
Coming to,
Seeing the concern in your expression,
And I know that I can't lie,
But sometimes it's just too much for me to tell you,
Some things just too painful to share.

Some of it is to protect you,
Some of it is to protect me,
From that awful time in that awful place,
Where peace was so hard to find,
And impossible to see.

Sometimes I can tell you parts,
The parts you could understand,
But others wouldn't make sense to those who weren't there,
Like getting anxiety of having to get into a 110 degree porta-john to ***.