Returning home from a distant shore.
Everything once owned is no more.
Feeling broken, depressed and seething.
Sleeping rough all while grieving.
Only possessions are about my person.
These discharge papers mean nothing.
Starving I beg for scraps on a corner.
No one realises I fought for their future.
Flashes of violence keep me awake.
PTSD is what they call this state.
But no one cares now I have no uniform.
I am simply another blight to civil society.
But if you’re so civil why am I left to rot?
Can’t remember warm food or comfort.
Instead I taste only mould and dirt.
Faith in humanity is dead and buried.
Eight years and nothing has changed.
Promises broken for we have been forgot.
Defended you with our lives.
Lost brothers and sisters only to be cut off.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 