PTSD Writing

The Soldier…

It is the Soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the Soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.

It is the Soldier, not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the Soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves under the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag.

by Father Dennis O’Brien

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Another Rose on the Grave…

I marched across the world, to do what had to be done,
yet something inside me says- we never really won.
I ask if it was worth the price- my brothers paid…
…so I lay another rose on the grave…

I catch myself often, starring into empty space…
wondering where I took that first- fall from grace…
They say I am lucky to have- made it back alive,
but I don’t feel that way, every time I close my eyes.

I can’t get the thoughts out of my head,
sometimes I think I’d be better off dead,
Look at all the blood we shed…yet you smile and wave…
…so I’ll throw another rose on the grave.

~syrric

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Here Comes the Rain Again…

Bent and broken- is what they say…
How was I to know- this is the price I’d pay…

I poured my heart and soul- into every single day…
Who knew this is how- Uncle Sam would repay…

The storm rolls in tonight- and the rain pours down…
The lightning strikes, the thunder bellows- as I fall on to the ground…
My mind takes me to another- place overseas…
but when I come to- my wife is beside me on her knees…

…and she whispers…
Wake up- it will be alright,
You’re not -alone tonight…
Take my hand- it will be ok…
it’s just another bad day.

How can I tell her how much she means to me…
How when I smell or touch her- she puts my mind at ease…
I want to tell her that I love her…
-but here comes the rain again…

~syrric

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Charlie Mike…

“Rat24 to Blacksmith Mike.

24 this is Mike go ahead.

Roger, SP time now.

Copy, SP time 0145.

Roger, 24 status RED, Lock and Load.”

Some love it, and some hate it but it’s a job that has to be done.

Trying to make sure that during the mission we didn’t lose no one.

Off in the distance, bullets scream across the sky.

Another crash, a loud boom… another Soldier dies.

Is it my turn tonight? Am I going to make it back ok?

Do you believe in God? Did you remember to pray?

With clinched fists I held on to the pic of my wife and kids,

it’s sand worn and faded… but that’s exactly what I did.

“Convoy Commander to 24,  Gunny-you alright?

It’s 24, Roger.

Alright then, Charlie Mike.”

I think back and wonder how we made it out alive,

but that’s only half truth, cause over there something inside me died.

~syrric