The motherfucker

Aims at my chest

A jet black revolver

Designed for death


I duck behind my car

Fear locking me in place

I don’t know this asshole

But he means to do harm


As he walks around the front

I pull a knife out of my belt

And stalk him around the rear

Moving swiftly, silently


I stab him in the neck

Once, twice, thrice

He does not drop his gun

Instead he turns around at me


He laughs, hand on his wounds

And proceeds to blast into me

Bullets tear through my waist

And finally into my brains


I stare at the light green wall of my room

These thoughts will not go away

It’s three in the morning now

My imagination will not let me sleep


So I pick up my laptop

I write poems and stories

And in those moments

I am free from terror


2 thoughts on “PTSD 4

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