When you try to shroud my spirit with the same skin that shapes your flesh and keeps your bones from breaking, you Frankenstein lies about me and truths about you. My blood tells tales tasting of terror, but my heart’s tongue does not linger around fuel that gives naught. I lick treats that nourish my ink… feed on energy that grows and delights around wild harmonies that move me.
you can’t feel
me through your living,
you aren’t me
the wee notes…
– someone told me, “I’m happy your chemo side effects aren’t as bad as mine.” So, I figured that writing a poem inspired by the feelings the ridiculous comment evoked would be more beneficial to my sanity than shouting: “Oh, really? The skin around my eyes hurts. My tongue is swollen. The heels of my feet are killing me. My joints are about to explode. Most of what I eat tastes like regurgitated MREs. I will not let chemotherapy keep me from exercising because no exercise means bone-splitting stiffness, you stupid twit!” Yep, I’m sure the poem was the better choice *cough*.
– linked to Poets United.
some days I’m a bit wicked, other days… well, I feel a lot