PTSD
I turn my pillow over every morning,
As though to smother last night’s wicked dream.
But when I lay me down to sleep each evening,
My nightmares catch me in their hellish stream.
Each day it's just anxiety and jitters,
Like always backing down a one-way street.
I often smudge my room with sour diesel.
My twelve-gauge shotgun isn’t meant for skeet.
I wonder at this world of callous beauty,
The cold uncaring splendor of it all.
I wrestle frightful demons in my man cave,
And drown my inner child in alcohol.
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