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Lily Priest Mar 10
I see the world horizontally,
Soft sheets all stuffy
With potential hardly realised.
My eyes, heavy and unhappy,
Are blinded by the muted sunshine
Mocking me through the blinds.
The hum of life,
Doing fine just outside the window,
I feel its energy,
Almost laugh at its impossibility.

Because I bear the world brutally,
Confined and coffin-ed
In an ache that leaves no stain.
Lady Macbeth,
My crime is wept on evidence of
Those shrines of *******
Laid to rest around the head
Of this tomb effigy,
Chronically enshrined in invisible agony
While the world just carries on.
Long term sufferer of endometriosis. On top of the not being believed and waiting for forever for a diagnosis, there's those days of not being able to anything. It's hard not to feel like a failure in those moments, like you're guilty of the crime of not living, not being.
Kate May 2021
you can't see him but he is always here

he spoke when I was home

he yelled at me when I was driving

he sang to me when I was asleep

he made me stay in bed day in and day out so he can hold me

I told him to leave but he held me so tight that I could not breathe
I have struggled with chronic pain for the past 6 years. My pain has torn my life apart and non of my treatment is working. Right now I am taking everything one day at a time. Some days I can live like a normal teenager with little pain, others I am stuck in bed from morning to night.
Sydney V Jan 2020
I can’t brush my hair
for it ignites, like a fire
across my soft scalp.
Chronic pain...
Sydney V Jan 2020
I feel like, I’m drowning.  
This feeling–  
a never-ending rush,  
of water, that cascades
my body,
my veins,
leaving me submerged
from the inside.  
This feeling–  
a longing for the mundane
when I could wake
to the sound of a 6:00am bell
and not,
have it be answered
by a throb
from within my skull.  
my mind,  
sags, like telephone wires
swaying tirelessly  
in summer heat.
My bones,  
These feelings–  
a second self  
through this tired will
of conduct, I call mine
much like the nails
on my fingers  
and the hair,  
upon my scalp.
A poem for my pains.
You rush to check on grandma,
To make sure she’s okay.
They say don’t stress her out,
She’s too delicate to say.
You clinch your chest,
From the unbearable pain,
You ask to sit down,
You say not today,
But with your short life there’s no way you’re sick!
You’re faking it they say,
It’s probably just a bug, anyway.
I can’t help, but wonder and maybe be envious,
her long life deserves to be handled,
more delicately than my short presence?
Because I haven’t had the years to age,
I’m left feeling anxious,
Not just because I feel more alone,
But I’m left feeling like a fake,
Trying to live an ordinary existence,
They don’t know of the smile I forged,
That my tumble I said was me being clumsy,
Is just the faint feeling I receive consistently,
the yawning wasn’t from a late night,
that no matter how much I sleep it could never be enough.
The grabbing at my chest isn’t heart burn,
But an irregular heart-beat that was above average for no cause.
That I sit because the blood pulling in my legs feels like needles
not because I am lazy,
for I’m burdened with an illness that my youthful skin hides,
and the pain caused from an embodiment of an uneducated mind.
I suffer from Dysautomia/POTS and not a lot understand it. Sometimes my ailments get the best of me and while I may seem and look normal. You never really know just how bad it can be.
Annelise Camille Oct 2018
My hands are shaking
My heart is racing
My feet are pacing
They think I'm faking

My bones turn to stone
It's all I've ever known
My muscles atrophy
Pain got the best of me

It's invisible and deceitful
Failures made me cynical
Solutions are only temporary
This body of mine is the enemy

Inflammation spreads like wildfire
I'm tired of being so tired
Nothing stops the torture, but
I'm fighting like a soldier

My body rebels
It is a prison cell
Trapped in my own hell
Gunshots fire inside
I really have tried
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