Living War


"Bombs explode overhead, shrapnel soars like the confetti of a million dead men's dreams,

too many to count, too fast to grasp, too sharp to hold

They whizz past, into the tender flesh of my comrads.

This is no celebration. This is no party. There is no confetti. Only blood.

Blood, enough to drench even the most impoverished lands,

pouring into every crack in the ground, every fold of a sleeve

This is what war feels like.

My men scream and gasp and grunt.

Every fleeting memory, every ounce of pain,

projected onto their face, more visible than a high definition film

mounted upon a screen for the whole world to see,

This is what death is.

They call for help, but I can not move.

I just stand.

They are gone.

I am here,

but I am gone too."

The way people think, the way people remember that is real.

PTSD is real.

This is a disease

This deserves recognition.

Put yourself into this world, into the horror of war. Survive it, and then relive it every day.

PTSD is a living war, a war at home, a war in your own mind.

Our soliders have the greatest job, protecting us.

And now it is our turn to protect them.


Guide that inspired this poem: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741