Restless in sleep,
I clamber out of bed and plod to the back porch
Its the whispering hour
winter’s breath jolts me sober as I pull the porch door
even with a clear celestial ceiling, light can’t penetrate the interlaced canopy of trees bordering the comatose creek just beyond the porch
Plopping myself down into the chase lounge,
I surrender a depressed breath
It’s been months of insomnia,
months since the explosions
months of being a civilian
Most days hyper-vigilance takes control of me
at night war demons visit behind my closed eyes
and bring agitated sleep
if sleep occurs at all
Every day, anger engulfs me
like an unpredictable explosion
Medications aid, but their barriers are easily broken,
I don’t always remember to take the handful of pills
I cut the cap off my Stradavarius, toast the foot, light,
inhale
it’s one of my many new vices as of late,
it helps stave off the nightmares for now
A quite clear description of PTSD. And so many have it. We have to find a way to stop sending young people into the bloody gore of war. If this is personal, I hope that you find peace with time. If not, it's a damn good write.
Love this poem of anger, and "night war demons," so much so, because I relate in so many ways. Nighttime is for sleeping . . . Except when you can't, then I find myself climbing out of bed and uncorking the cheap California burgundy.
Hah! Ya got me clicking on "Crumbs in My Cleavage" for naught, for naught I say.
Perhaps "..Quiet Storm" will help rekindle old flames buried and long forgotten or express the love so deeply locked inside of your soul longing to be released.
Regardless of where you may be found in love this beautiful masterpiece can be
This book represents a thirty-day period of my poetry journal. Each poem addresses
the dominant thoughts occupying my mind during the early morning hours of a given
day.
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powerful commentary
keep writing
Michael D.
Ron
Hah! Ya got me clicking on "Crumbs in My Cleavage" for naught, for naught I say.