PTSD

euthanasia__incomplete_6_x8__by_blackvragor-d6lrxy4

Caroline Gates

What has become of my unshed tears

Do they remain within, fossilized and mute?

I claw futilely at my wrists wishing that I could

Pluck them free as if a quill or a splinter

Yet they remain ripping holes in all my dreams

*

There is loneliness in futility

In the relentless casting of soiled dress

I’ve been too long a daughter

What emergency now remains

That I should be obliged to exit?

I can assure myself of a pulse

And yet life still does not carry on

For I have not been trained in life

Only in the alternate, survival 

*

I also wrote a poem at Curious Scribbles today and another group of short poems I was going to post but then I wrote this and decided to go with this

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21 responses to “PTSD

  1. “I claw futilely at my wrists wishing that I could

    Pluck them free as if a quill or a splinter

    Yet they remain ripping holes in all my dreams” – such a raw and powerful way to describe ones most deep insides. I liked the ending as well especially.

  2. And when one is too busy surviving, they aren’t allowed to truly live and no one around them recognizes or understands that dilemma.

  3. This is “painfully” powerful and raw, Yves. Such a halting topic, you certainly rendered it justice….such a misunderstood state of being…unyielding and tormenting. Blessings, Oliana xx

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