There is a monster under my bed.
Hauting, screaming, hurting me.
It talks to me every night.
I believe it doesn't want me here.
It screams and cries, acts more like a child than me.
It smells of the bottles in the glass container.
It stumbles up the stairs.
It opens every window, let's the cold winter frost in and hopes it freezes time.
Instead, it freezes me.
I wait, behave, hope.
I stay silent so it doesn't notice I'm here.
Tomorrow it will wake me up.
Tomorrow it will attend a parent-teacher conference.
Tomorrow they will praise it.
"You did a good job raising her"
Tomorrow it will turn into my mother.
Tomorrow night, the monster returns.

Hauting dreams that turn to nightmares with cold sweats and shouts from your loved ones waking  you up in the night.  Trying to tell yourselves that it was right what you did and it will never be the only fight. In the search for peace you found war watching deathly sights trying to drown your sorrows with whiskey chasers and larger pints. Living memories that hounds your soul without pictures and medals on your wall to painful to see them at all. Badges and berets with stripes on your arms as these courageous men and women go to arms. Making us civilians who don't know the anguish of war free from harm there lies my great uncles charms.