why do roots of problems
dig into my skin like it is dirt,
like it is soil,
so there is toil and trouble,
pop my bubble, pinprick my dreams,
my hopes, my l o n g i n g s, my fears,
(when you ***** a fear it gets angry and larger)
oh this, this is the Merlot talking,
oh this isn't supposed to be about me at all,

dusty roads with yellow ribbons,
running by the foot on the shoulder,
worn out combat boots like the soldier,
for those at war, on a distant shore,
when they come home, they will
not leave it behind, like a minefield
in their mind, exploding again, again, and again, again,
somethings refuse to defuse like
emotions they can't deal with,
oceans away, so poignant, that
the movie plays over and over
again, despite the reviews, the
unwelcome news, that their life here
                                       do you hear,
is now meaningless, for the fear,
                                 for the tears,
for the tears in their vessel that
lead to their heart, that sadly does
not take orders, but feels the heat of hell,
denied that there is a problem
in the post traumatic effects of war,
let a politician, disarm and IED,
let a politician, tell a family that
their child will not becoming home,
and his thirty, sixty or one hundred and
twenty fellow soldiers send their respects,
and the work he was doing overthere
has not been completed yet, so pray for
the troops who...
                          oh wait that mission has now ended.
So is this poem.