Something’s not right—
inside my head it echoes,
like distant shellfire.
Even in silence, I hear
what never truly left me.

The mines still remain,
wired beneath ordinary days—
I step carefully.
Every sound feels like a threat,
every shadow breathes danger.

I speak with the dead,
not always words—just mutterings,
their voices linger constant.
Answering in broken tones,
like memories half-remembered.

The world stains itself—
grass, sky, trees all bleed the same—
or maybe it’s me.
Flares still burn behind my eyes,
colour refuses to settle.

They come close at night,
gathered around my still bed,
keeping me breathing.
When they fade, I come undone—
left alone with what survived.

They understand it—
the sniper I cannot see,
the traps in each step.
This world feels no different now
from the one I left behind.

Now I lie awake,
between ward walls and old wars—
never quite returned.
If something has broken here,
it still speaks… and won’t be still.

By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

I wrote Casualty—Mental Ward to give voice to those who return from conflict carrying wounds that cannot be seen, often reduced to labels that fail to capture the depth of their struggle. This poem reflects the relentless, misunderstood nature of that inner breakdown. I still grapple with why some return seemingly untouched, while others remain trapped in what they’ve endured, long after the conflict has ended.

#WarPoetry #MentalHealthAwareness #InvisibleWounds #PTSDVoices #VeteransStories #SpokenWordPoetry