POST TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER
by Gary Adams

Alone with his memories, ones he wont share

A heart of stone, a look of despair

A social outcast in the land of the free

A victim of circumstance, of PTSD

Once a young warrior with nerves of steel

A tiny cog in a giant wheel

Trained to the minute, his time had come

He left Australia to the beat of the drums

Jungles and paddy fields, enemy in black

Mines and booby traps, a hundred pound pack

The daily grind of blood, sweat and tears

Two months in the scrub, seemed more like two years.

Your mates were your brothers, you knew them so well

Some called it Vietnam, some called it hell.

Friends for life upon whom you depend,

For every hero, a hundred brave men.

When he came back he just wasn’t the same,

He’d done his duty and played their game.

He tried to forget but didn’t know how,

Those terrible memories that still haunt him now.

He’s still in that shell scrape, he’s still on that hill,

He stares at the body of his very first kill.

He goes to the Cenotaph to visit his mates,

A marble slab of names and dates.

Hoping one day he’ll finally be free,

Of the curse that’s known as PTSD.