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.