To that veteran sitting on one of the million side walks
of New York at 9pm on a blustery November night.
Lying on a sleeping bag that can hardly prevent the iciness of the ground
from sliding into your spine.
Wearing a huge overcoat and a woolen  cap past their usage.
Smoking your precious cigarette..
you have only a few left.
Reading the lastest John Grishams novel.
I see the library sticker on it’s jacket.
And I thank God for the libraries here in this beautiful country of ours.
That allow people like me who are fighting storms in the dark
a place to venture in where there’s light,
where there are reminders that life does get better.
It can be more interesting.
More alive.
Libraries that allow people like you who have forgotten what home really is
to escape amongst the pages.
To feel safe in another world.
Where something makes sense.
Where the good prevails.
Where the solider does not come back crushed in tiny pieces from a war he didn’t start or know of.
Where his wife doesn’t leave him,
tired of his mood swings and temper.
Where his children don’t miss the father they once had.
Where his mind is his own and not controlled by all the atrocities he saw.
Where he is sure whom he was fighting against.
Those vivid dreams that kill the souls of those who experience
the massacres.
The blood ,the bones.
It wasn’t your war to fight I know.
You were in your prime.
You wanted to prove something to yourself.
To discipline.
To belong.
Yet here you sit not even recognizing yourself.
You look up as I walk by.
A brown woman clutching a baby and holding the hand of a boy who wanders off.
A woman who is lonely and wants to sit down with you over a cup of tea
and talk
about the latest books and new movies.
Or revel together in silence.
A woman who is just like you from inside.
Tormented by the cruel lonely passage of time.
An outcast.
Neither here nor there
She too doesn’t belong.
Letting go of her little boy for a second.
to wipe her tears.
looking at you in case you saw her gesture
and you did.
She is struck by the intelligence in your eyes.
You are disturbed by the warmth in hers.
There’s no pity or avoidance.
She stares as if she knows.
Suddenly you feel shy and look at the pages you no longer want to read.
You know a lost soul when you see one.
Only she has covered her destruction with layers of work and to do lists.
It looks to you as if she falters in her step.
She is unsure just for a minute.
Then she goes on with borrowed determination,
courage on loan.
You see her go by and go back to your hell.
She goes on to board the bus
while you sit there feeling as if you just lost a friend.

Zarmina Khan.🖤

If you liked this poem do give me a follow here or on Instagram @zarminaswords thank you. Have a great day.

𝓩𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓪 𝓚𝓱𝓪𝓷🐾☕🌼

#mentalhealth #ptsd #army #veterans #newyork #homeless #nyc #mentalillness #depression #vet #poetry #socialpoetry #posttraumatic #psychiatry #psychology #poem #poets