It doesn’t matter if it is cold, hot, sunny, snowing or raining.
There is no telling when it’s going to strike.
Are they alive or dead?
Is that pain real or echoes from pain long ago that
Resurface with a memory?
It’s like being held hostage by your mind.
Is today the day I am set free?
I look like everyone else.
I know the difference between right and wrong.
Yet in my head I sometimes can’t remember
The last ten minutes of my life, or what day, year or time it is.
Are those smells read or is that a smell from a place and time when I
Was being held against my will?
Am I really hearing the sounds of helicopters, planes,
Cicadas, and birds?
Or is that the sound coming from a place that no longer exists and
Should never be talked about?
I want so much to be like everyone else.
So I will keep pulling myself up the rope.
Out of the clutches of PTSD and all the skeleton hands of the past that
Keep trying to pull me down.
My job is to live, so I can live.
That’s all I can ask of myself if I am going to have a future.