Poetry

PTSD

By 2nd November 2009December 9th, 2019No Comments

My precious state of isolation causes occasional insurrection.
Bubbling up from far below, a volcanic, caustic bloody flow.
The diagnosis never changes, from this to that it always ranges.
On the swivel, frozen in flight, but always searching for the fight.
This pill, that pill, vodka on the rocks, nothing can out run an adrenaline fox.

Is it possible that anything could bar the door?
Say no to all this horror, and lift me off the floor?
Or will the cure be worse that what it takes away?
I don’t care about the peril just send peace my way.

Brian Heffron

Author Brian Heffron

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