pain – Anton Martin Smith Writer

By Anton martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

Do I have PTSD?

Is the question I ask of myself daily.

And If you’re reading this – I bet you do too.

Did I reach a point at 35 when the until-now-buried, seeds-of stress-all bloomed?

Before that mid-thirties limit, my youth could smother it all,

Like some cyborg-ed cold-hearted futuristic bounty hunter.

But then at that critical year in life’s age,

I must had been once again pushed another infinitesimal millimetre,

But this time, time & space had run out.

Now I was found myself finally pushed right up to & teetering over the precipice,

Of that cliff that was designed for me, & people just like me, long, long ago.

Teetering, thereby when the next trauma hit – (likely disguised a pretty human female),

It would send me careering downwards to ‘bottom-cliffs-ville’ with no parachute, & no recourse.

Then when you hit the ground, youth has suddenly gone forever, & the world has changed.

When you look up from the splat-point, you now may as well be seventy.

All the good things that came to you so easily have now evaporated.

But as the years post impact rolled along this “PTSD” has given you wisdom.

And you realise it’s cut that ‘fake-hard-but-easy’ old world away from you,

As a butcher cuts off a line of fat from a steak, & then whacks it, you’ve been made much better .

Ahhh ‘PTSD’ & AGE – heavens secret gift for your aged soul.

And in truth you probably don’t even have “PTSD” – merely some cheaply made imitation.

But each night you’ll raise a glass to the comfort of it all just the same.

Just like the two billion of others just like you,

Who are also convinced they are uniquely sad.

And we all unwittingly raise a glass nightly & in unison to each other,

As we sit in from of our computer screens,

Forever mourning the sudden death of our own past lives.

by Martin Anton Smith

I once met a girl called Yippy Y’Pong,
Or Y Y for short, which incidentally, she was.
O ‘culture wars’ did untie this fragile ‘Knot’.
Yes, We got what we got,
& we got the lot.
The Disagreements were decidedly epic;
The passive aggressiveness?
It was unfortunately unwaveringly,
underminingly uncomfortable.

So sadly, we soon divorced our special friendship.
The worry in the aftermath,
was equal in worth to mathematical infinity.
Yes – with My heart being so broken,
My formerly beefy baritone voice,
Became so softly & squeakily spoken.

My heart thus being swiftly & unyieldingly smashed,
Went from foppish aflutter to apoplectic palpitation.
So perilous was this heartless fact,
Its stringy moorings were no longer in-tact.
yes -it did Olympically jump out my chest,
& splattered downwards into the gruesome dingey gutter,
& Then fell down the dangling dirty depths of A sidewalk drain.

I stood wounded, literally heartless & dispiritingly dejected,
& Without much words or even a low decibel mutter.
I stood ‘stoopily’ with unevenly hunched shoulders.
Of course, it goes without saying: I was unhappy –
Suckered into being exquisitely, surgically, psychologically, ‘undone’.
Even worse the victor was watching my unravelling: it was Yippy Y’Pong
Just standing there watching, with a uneven smirk,
laughing when my heart rattled downwards with a
“Da Doink Da Doink Da Doink”.

And here’s the point:
O why O why
Did I Choose someone called
Yippy Y’Pong?
With her ‘worldliness’ in tow?
Alas! I was drunk with on Love!
Blinded by dead doves.
To her,
My flights of fancy,
were far more than just chancy,
They were deadly:
I might not just bore her to death,
I might have opened her eyes to something,
she had until now failed to see.
A dangerous idea that just simply couldn’t be.

Tag: pain

“My so-called PTSD Life?” (A Poem)