Not fair is it? and yet again something triggers a bad night.
This time it was a psycho-babble article about combat stress. Me sat here thinking, if only he (the author) had been there to see, feel, live, and smell what we endured. Perhaps he’d be less condescending. Or even less of a prat.

Anyway, I found this in my poetry folder when I was writing about nightmares.
A book of bad verse that nearly allowed me to cope with ‘what was’.


What do you see when you struggle awake?
Deep wet with sweat, alive in your dreams.

What did you feel as that cannon fire hit,
as you remember your anger, and all of the dead?

What of the smell which clogged up your nose?
Hot oil, scorched metal, burned skin and warm blood.

What do you do as you anger within,
Slumber no more and another deep drink?

Why can’t you tell as you sit there and shake?
‘Cause your memories are black, and ever so bleak.

Whose name do you speak, whose face do you see?
As your last shot for them freed them from hate?

Why don’t you tell all to your love that’s so near?
To protect her in case my past visits here.

So who is that one you’re fearing the most?
That’s got to be me and the hatred within.