The Potters Field
Like an intricate mosaic with just one missing tile.
You know something is wrong and has been for a while.
Surreptitiously working its way into your mind.
Not wanting to admit an illness, saying things will be fine.
The nightmares come first, wake up dripping in sweat.
Maybe see a doctor about it, but doesn't want to just yet.
Panic attacks, immobilise, their talons grip deep into your soul.
Forced to submit to the wretchedness of its filthy black hole.
Like many before, temporary solace is found in the bottle.
Swilling down the demon drink until over they topple.
When the foggy haze of drunkenes clears and the innards burn.
To be immersed in liquor once again they would yearn.
The pills, well they work to keep you sane.
Not to make you better but just to numb the brain.
Emotion is gone, neither feeling happy or sad.
I think I'd rather feel something, even if it's bad.
PTSD, reduced to an acronym all of its own.
R.Y.O.K, is the message to call someone over the phone.
A campaign of advertising, that will do the trick.
But the sufferer still feels no one cares one little bit.
Like the potters field from times of old.
Where broken vessels are tossed, that don't quite fit the mould.
It's a difficult task to bend down and pick up each shard.
Try to put a pot back together, it just seems way too hard.
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