Walking mined fields of unexploded ordnance
jittery obsessive compulsive organizing make up
my nights,
while dreary sedated automatic response and long sleeves
hiding nervous breakdown lacerations moves me
through through the work day.
Daily grind amputation by fire,
victim to last decade's wars.
Napalm Sunday patiently awaits,
surveying iconoclastic explosive damage from the previous
evenings.
Confused metaphoric melancholy
of flesh and clothing seared off by
petroleum based terror.
Brightest days blindingly unbearable,
Darkest days sheer unexplainable terror,
hardships in cerebral dungeons,
labyrinth of unbalanced chemicals
filled with the rotten stench of war.

What right do I have to scream?

Charles Darkly

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/napalm-sunday/