Long Ptsd Poems
Long Ptsd Poems. Below are the most popular long Ptsd by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ptsd poems by poem length and keyword.
MY VIETNAM VETERAN HUSBAND AND I RETURNED HOME TO A HORROR INTRUDERS PICKING OUR LOCKS RIPPING PAGES AGAIN AN ONGOING 23 YEAR HEIST FIR DOCUMENTS MILITARY IMMUNIZATION RECORDS OF MY KIDS THE DAYS I WORE WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI I WOUKD OFTEN TAKE THE KIDS TO GET SHOTS BEING IT WAS THE BEGINNING OF ANOTHER SCHOOL FBI RECEIPTS ARLINGTON HEIGHTS FIELD OFFICE ALONG WITH MY CHILDREN SHOT RECORDS MARRIAGE CERTIFICATES THIS STALKER PICKS THE LOCK WITH BROKEN HANGERS FINALLY OPENS OUR MILITARY TRUNKS AND BEGAN GOING THROUGH CLASSIFIED DOCUMENTS UNAUTHORIZED DOCUMENTS IN OUR HOME BLESSING SHE GOT A BAD CUT WHILE HANDLED MEDICAL RECORDS FROM 1966 LEAVING BLOOD STAINS FINALLY PLACING STICKERS ON PAGES DOCUMENTS MY HUSBAND AND I BOTH SUFFER FROM PTSD TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY WE ARE VERY DRAINS AFRAID AT TIMES SHE ACTUALLY POINTED AN ASSAULT RIFLE FROM ACROSS THE STREET RED DOTS BEAMING IN OUR WINDOW IDENTITY FRAUD IS A HORRID THING WITH DATA BREACHES THESE THIEVES PULL HOME INVASIONS HEIST UPON MILITARY FAMILIES THE SMELL OF HER BLOOD TOXIC SADNESS THAT VIETNAM VETERANS FAMILIES WE SPEND OUR LIFE PLANTING FLOWERS PLANTING TREES PAINTING BRICKS FOR THE FALLEN LINING OUR HOME WITH FAITH CHARITY MOST OF THESE IS LOVE THE LOVE OF GIVING GODS EARTH I ADORE WATCHING THE TREES SWAY WITH THE FLAG WAVING WE ARE AMERICAN I REALIZE IT'S CIRO GARGANO ANGRY BITTER ALL THESE YEARS TERRORISTS THREATS ATTEMPTS TO EXTORT BLACKMAIL MILITARY FAMILIES MY PRAYERS ARE WITH THIS DEADLY TERROR REMINDING ME OF WITNESSING THE MURDER OF RASTA ANDREW HIS BLOOD STAINED MY DOORWAY HE ARRIVED WAVING HIS GUN TO MURDER ME BY GODS GRACE HE WAS KILLED BEFORE HE KILLED ME MY STALKERS IS HIS LONGTIME GIRL FRIEND TONI HER DAUGHTER JAY TOWNSEND JOHNSON HENRY JAMAICAN DEALERS DANITA DELMONT AGENT TALISHA SHAW ALICIA HILTON KIWANI BUGGS LEAVING BLOOD STAINS BEHIND ON OUR FLAGS AND PAINTED BRICKS FOR THE FALLEN GOD BLESS AMERICA
random thought
about bought
lesee i let a i o u
tune my poems
& it's so true
entomb my tomes
now for guilt
wrapping quilt
or satisfaction or both
placate faction doth
i don't write know more
blank white boar
less than not
in ending this
game of rot
composting fbook
if you care to look
just don't kiss
any dyslexic
mix or be sic
sans which rye
on rub in put in pi
know where going
less point more thumb
all ready now showing
orange ain't knew dumb
can't get past
third weak
sans rubbing cash
praytell pay less
peter's pall
merrikka stall
must get this sin
don't kill venezuelan
since rus needs busy be
now that you crane
has no see
but blown apart brain
an wouldn't want sia
defend with weapon i ran
brics expect expand
wooden wont bee ya
all drunk
aslib progressive punk
hanging hard
on mccarthy card
ptsd owns petard
The troll was delighted when a wrinkled up crone wandered in.
She had an unassuming air about her, and a giant wart upon her chin.
I can pop her in my oven he thought; I bet her flesh is mighty tasty.
If he had understood Broom Hilda, he would not have been so hasty.
BH was sizing him up. She could practically taste his thighs and hips.
She had taken down trolls bigger than him, some as big as battle ships.
She took out her bag of magic, and pulled out her wand of choice.
It was a beautiful dragon-scaled beauty from her cousin Ugly Joyce.
Troll was making plans to choke her when she gave her wand a swish.
He landed on his petootsie surprising his dog, crow, and fighting fish.
What is happening? They wondered as the old woman gave a jump.
She began to bash and kick him, turning him into a fleshy clay lump.
He was easy to put into the oven, but she had no idea how to turn it on.
He crawled out an hour later and asked his pets, is that old lady gone?
She had wandered into the village that was way down a cobbled hill.
The troll thinks of her often, for he has PTSD and nightmares still.
I have been crying today thinking of the young man, aged 23 locked up,in a prison remand cell awaiting assessment by the,Mental Health Authorities. Just about a year ago he reentered civilian life after 4 years in the army, and having survived 2 tours of duty in Afghanistan.
I still recall the horror I felt when I first met him and another Veteran of about the same age and heard them calmly discussing how they found and marked IEDs for disposal. To have gone through such experiences, and still only then 22,
Since then he has managed to work and proudly maintain his partner and young son. He has had flashbacks of course; we have twice been out in the early hours of the morning in response to his cries for help. On one occasion he had set up an Observation Post in a hedge to observe the Taliban, This in an East Yorkshire village.
Maybe he will this time get the help he so desperately needs, and in time return to a semblance of normal life. A semblance because there is no cure for PTSD.
That is why I cried this morning, and why I wear my Poppy with pride, and why I stand on the streets collecting money to help support these damaged people and their families.
That is also why I regard politicians with contempt and disdain; they who will fight to the last drop of another's blood, then flaunt themselves at the peace table.
There but for fortune could have been me. I am one of that band of brothers: I am a British Army Veteran. I am proud of that fact,
Some gave all.
I am lucky to have tears to shed for my young friend, indeed for them all
The night began like any other,
I grabbed my gear, laced up my boots,
And threw spit shine on the leather.
Rifle slung and bag in hand with the usual friendly banter
I had yet to reach my ride
As the mic began to chatter.
Heading to a crash, one that happened at high speed
Smoke debris and gasoline
Unsure of what I’d need
I hit the lights and sirens and surged my car to life
I felt beside my magazine
to ensure I had my knife.
Updates came as I picked up speed,
Though their tone had already spoken
There would be no life to save this day, another family broken
The cars like origami, metal mixed with flesh
I cut right through their shattered windshield,
But all I found was death
I remind myself again that I know it’s for the best.
I’m one of the few who deal with this
To shelter all the rest.
I left that call and drove away, my shift had just begun
I was only fifteen minutes in
and we’ve lost another one
FEARING FOR MY SAFETY COPING HEALING DOMESTIC VIOLENCE SITUATION ONGOING ATTACKS IT WAS LONG HOME INVASIONS BREAKING IN MY HOME BANK FRAUD MY IDENTITY THIEF THE SCARIEST CALL MY DAUGHTER ABDUCTED IN A PLACE WHERE YOU ARE TOTALLY ALONE I CALLED 911 PUT HER ON AMBER ALERT WHILE THE ABDUCTOR GRABS THE PHONE AND SAY ITS A F KING PRANK MY GOD MY GOD MY DAUGHTER WAS FOUND SAFE BUT I WAS STILL TERRIFIED THIS HOUSE WAS A DEATH TRAP WHERE WITCHES GATHERED IN THE BASEMENT BURNING STARS CROSSES DRAGONS CRYSTAL BALLS IT WAS A SCARY HOUSE ASHES THICK ASHES ON THE WALLS AN INCINERATOR BUILT IN BRICKS FOR DEPOSING OF BODIES FINALLY A GREAT BLESSING SECTION 8 NEW AFFORDABLE HOME ONE MONTH LATER WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN THE BASEMENT I THOUGHT OF ALICIA HILTON SHE KINDA FAVORED HER ODD THOUGH SHE LOOKED LIKE ONE OF CIRO GARGANO GIRLS THE ONE WHO HUNG OUT WITH DANITA DELMONT AGENT CIRO GARGANO PLAYMATES HE SHARED WITH MY ABUSIVE EX HUSBAND DRIVING AN AUDI NEARLY RUNNING US OFF THE ROAD INTO DANITA'S HONDA I KNEW DEATH WAS NEAR BEING AN FBI INFORMANT WEARING WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI I AM JUST SO GRATEFUL MY FAMILY WAS SPARED THE HOME INVASIONS CONTINUED AS HERE LATELY MY STALKERS PULLED ANOTHER HOME INVASION PUTTING STICKERS ON 1966 MEDICAL RECORDS VIETNAM INTIMIDATING TO REMIND ME OF THE DEAD WOMAN THE NEWS SAID HER AUDI WAS PARKED SHE CAME FROM ANTIOCH TO BUY HEROIN I THOUGHT THIS WAS A HOAX A FAKE MURDER ONE OF CIRO’S FAKING THEIR DEATH AGAIN VERY STRANGE VERY STRANGE INDEED I KNEW CIRO HAD A HOME IN ANTIOCH THIS WAS VERY STRANGE WHY INTIMIDATE ME TODAY THREATS FROM A HAUNTED HOUSE THREATS FROM A DEAD WOMAN AND HER SIDEKICK KIWANI BUGGS DANIELLE DESMOND DANITA DELMONT AGENT MY ABUSIVE EX HUSBANDS CULT STABLE HE SHARED WITH CIRO GARGANO ODD JUST ODD MY CHEST HURTS WITH ANXIETY PTSD PANIC DISORDER CIRO’S KILLERS MY ABUSIVE EX HUSBAND MY WEARING WIRES PREGNANT BUYING WEAPONS AND DRUGS FOR THE FBI FEARING MY SAFETY WATCHING CIRO PLOTTING MY DEATH
Only a hero volunteers for war,
willing to battle and die for others.
And do things they'd typically abhor,
rallying into a band of brothers
defending their homes, sisters, and mothers.
While war levies its toll in flesh and bone
insidious night-terrors haunt the mind.
And yet, in past wars, their cause was unknown,
but atrocities and guilt once combined,
PTSD symptoms aren’t far behind.
I was born while dad fought in Korea,
he had survived two wars before we met.
But who he was, I had no idea.
I knew naught of war; I was three, and yet
mom said my father was this army vet.
I could feel his anger, but not his pain,
though I bore its fury with every beer.
And cringed inside when he acted insane,
building up my resentment tear by tear
for he never offered love, only fear.
Frustrated, he was prone to violence,
but in his last years, I noticed a change.
He had stopped yelling, preferring silence,
and uncharacteristically strange
bouts of kindness, and tears, would interchange.
(English Quintain)
Nov. 11, 2018
Finally relaxing
on my high-rise roof
I notice you across the street on
your balcony seemingly aloof
listening to vintage Carly Simon,
"That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard it Should Be"
You stare my way and energetically waive
I hesitate, smile and then return the gesture
As if on cue you stand and press against the railing
Still smiling as my heart beats faster
"What's your name?" you playfully cry out
"Who wants to know?" is my surprising reply
Who really am I?
Sudden flashbacks hijack my thinking
Song lyrics dredging up buried memories…
Why is this happening? Why am I sinking?
Triggered
I hear your beseeching, unintelligible shouts as I retreat
Painful memories open like an oubliette under my feet—
p
l
u
n
g
i
n
g
Lost and languishing in isolation's labyrinth
AS I WATCHED MY GRANDDAD LOOK AT MY GRAMMIE
HIS EYES LIT UP SO EVERYTIME HE'D SAY SEE
THE BEAUTY OF A WOMAN IS IN ALL THAT SHE DOES
I LOOKED AT HER WRINKLE HANDS MY EYES A FUZZ
AT WHAT HE SAW WHEN HESAW SO MUCH LOVE
SHE SMILED SO HEAVENLY AS HE'D SAY MY PRETTY
I LOOKED IN THE MIRROR AS I YOUNG AND WITTY
THEY DANCED AND GLANCED IN EACHOTHERS EYES
NEVER HAD THEY EVER LOOKED WITH DISPISE
HIS SMILE WAS SO BIG SHE FIXING HIS CUFFLINKS
AS HE SPINNED HER AROUND THE KITCHEN SINK
SHE LAUGHED AND SUNG SO AS HER HANDS CLAPPED
THEMAN WAS STUNTED BY THIS VISION OF AGE
MOST MEN CARRIED LADIES FROM A MAGAZINE PAGE
THIS COUPLE OF SUCH APPRECIATION SO MUCH JOY
SHE WAS LIKE A MAIDEN AND HE AS A YOUNG BOY
I ASKED COULD I CUT IN AND HAVE JUST A DANCE
HE SAID YOU'RE TO OLD AND SASSIE NOT A CHANCE
YOU SEE THE DAY WAS YOUNG AND SO WERE THEY
SO WE MOVED THE TABLES AND GOT OUT OF THE WAY
WRITTEN BY MRS. YOLANDA NICHOLSEN 11-17-2004
DURING A BLIZZARD SUFFERING FROM PTSD PENT UP
WITH TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY AWAITING TO TESTFY
IN A MURDER TRIAL IN TAMPA BAY STARRING AT MY
POP VEGAS MAGAZINE SO THIS WAS WRITTEN
FOR MY GRAND PARENTS ROOSEVELT AND NONA
THE HOUSE OF NOTES WHERE THE BLUES JAZZ CARBARET
WAS QUITE VIVID MY BEING A WRITER IN HIDING FROM
MY KILLERS MY STALKERS I NEEDED TO CONCEAL
MY IDENTITY FROM MY STALKERS WHILE THAT MURDER
TRIAL WAS GOING DIDN'T WANT MY JAMAICAN
KILLERS LOCATING ME BEFORE THE TRIAL BEGAN
SO I CREATED MARIETTA KEATING FROM MY POP
VEGAS MAGAZINE HE SAID I HAD MARIETTA'S EYES
THE SHOWGIRL ON THE COVER WEARING FEATHERS
ON THE COVER MARIETTA THE JEWISH LADY FROM
WW11 MY POP ALLOWED HER TO SEE HER HUSBAND
WHO WAS HELD CAPTURED BY THE GERMANS MARIETTA
KEATING BECAME A VERY IMPORTANT PART OF MY EXISTANCE
MY WAY OF GIVING A TRIBUTE TO MY IRISH ANCESTORS
FROM KEATON IRELAND
NO DIFFERENT THAN MARIO PUZO WRITING IN HIS
SUITER NYME CLERI OR YOLANDA CORNELIA GIOVANNI JR.
SUITER NYME NIKKI GIOVANNI COPING WITH SEVERAL
MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES INCLUDING A FEW ALTO EGOS
MARIETTA KEATING BECAME JUST THAT AN ALTO EGO
BECOMING ONE WITH YOUR CHARACTERS OVERTIME
THIS POEM IS A BEAUTIFUL TRIBUTE TO MY GRANDPARENTS
WATCHING THEM DANCE LIKE THEY WERE FOREVER AT
THE HIGHSCHOOL DANCE AT 81 YEARS YOUNG
PTSD…an invisible illness that people may not know,
An illness that anytime the victim could blow,
But nobody cares and compassion hasn’t show,
Because only few can understand….
Others discerned as if a contagious disease,
They try to mock the poor victims and they tease,
Cracking up is not an excuse for them to please,
Because only few can understand…
Who can tell that a person with PTSD is a monster?
Isn’t too harsh for you to judge them and better yet foster?
Why not listen to their sentiments to make them stronger?
…That’s because only few can understand…
You have no idea the agony and hell they’ve been through,
That in their entire life they’re fighting demons to drew,
Their angers killing them, but people never knew,
Because only few can understand…
You are not upright nor perfect for them to degrade,
Hence, you should help them and not to evade,
You shouldn't bully them like nobody or played,
Because I know, only few can understand…