Dear Mr. President,
Can you help me please?
I think there’s something wrong with me.
Doc says it’s disease.
The one they call PTSD.

Dear Mr. President,
I did all they asked of me.
Gunshots, explosions, blood and gore.
My best friend died by IED.
And I got shown the door.

Dear Mr. President,
My wife left me last week.
She couldn’t take how tense I am.
So she slapped me ‘cross my cheek.
Anymore I just don’t give a damn.

Dear Mr. President,
I can’t get the help I need and want.
I tried the VA, but the lines were long.
I’m tired, unshaven, and my face is gaunt.
My kids say “Daddy, please be strong.”

Dear Mr. President,
I’m all alone now and having no fun.
Sitting on a chair in my cammy shirt.
In my mouth rests the end of my gun.
I just pray to God it doesn’t hurt.

Dear Mr. President,
Just help the others please.
Cuz soon there’ll be nothing wrong with me.
Not even the disease.
The one Doc calls PTSD.