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TIM ANDREWS Nov 2023
Sometimes I just want to be normal
I want to stroll over to the pub
And chat to a guy I know
And when I want to leave
I shall go

I shall walk out into the sunlight
Stretch my back and get into my car
Put on my music loud
And drive as fast I can
As fast I’m allowed

It will take twenty minutes or so
To reach the station in time
I park and watch a disabled guy
Limp to the ticket machine
I thank my lucky stars
That it’s him
Instead of me

You see me as you leave the train
You smile in that familiar way
Demure and kind of formal
A smile that a wife
Would give to a husband    
If he was normal    

Yeah, normal is what I’d like to be
Nothing special, just as before
A man who could hold his head high
A man who could sing with The Beatles
Tell me why
2023
Kai Jan 2022
As school comes to an end, I decide to
spend the summertime with my instrument.
I read music theory for two hours,
but my hands yearn for the touch of six strings.
Fingers position themselves to stroke bliss.
But my phone’s troubled with recurring rings.

****, it was mom telling me I have class!
I raced for my backpack, and I told her:
I will not slack. Papers grew so lonely
without their folder to cuddle them close.
I couldn’t care to organize them cause
usually, I’d lay in my seat repose.

Ionic bonds? What do they even mean?
And what the heck is “double replacement”?
Okay, I should start paying attention.
I grasp the pen. I notice the tension.
As soon as I write, my hands start to shake.
I start over. Now hands begin to ache.

What in the world is happening to me?
Two words: I scream. Head jerks, and my legs shake.
It has to be a dream. It has to be!
Don’t want to move, but I have to take notes.
Why are random words bursting out my throat?  
I’ma be real. I need my mommy!

Class is over. I exclaim to mother:
my fingers refuse to stop tremoring.
And I’m getting these tics. What set it off?
First thing I do is reach for my guitar.
I can’t hold it. I can’t ******* grab it.
Eyes of terror stay written on my face.

The next day I was in a wheelchair.
I cannot look straight- straight up to the sky
or look in front and into people’s eyes.
My right-hand curves to the left. A tendon
sinks into my flesh, and my left fingers
cramp up from being intertwined like vines.

They are stiff. Hideous. These are not mine.
But it does get much better with some time.
I can walk again, talk again, and write.
But all good things come with downfalls, don’t they?
My brain disease will come at me with might.
And I refuse to give up on this fight.

There will be a time when I reach stage five.
And I know it won’t be a pretty sight.
I’m ready for what will happen to me.
Dearest guitar, please know you’re my heaven.
Why bother to fret? Cause’ when the time comes
I’ll see you again in a few seconds.
Last year I was diagnosed with a brain disease, but that won't stop me from doing what I love.
John Reilly May 2019
at 4 A.M.
you do these things
they become habit
eating in the middle of the night
waking up as routine
contemplating your plight
contemplation
of you
what you do
in the middle of the night
is that really you
or a symptom
or side effect
did you choose the road here
or is it a neurological pathway
a chemical imbalance
a plaque to your horror
at 4A.M.
contemplating
taking things apart
or are they
taking
apart
you
wrote this ages ago it seems but never posted.  I'm actually sleeping past 4AM now which helps my sanity a ton!  Thanks trazadone.
John Reilly Mar 2019
1:11 AM
Hiding in
A cake
Riding out
The terror
Basking in this light
Blind me to it all
Capture all my fears
Envelope me
My temerity  
Save what’s left
The few words
That struggle
To be free
Of the
Terror
That is
Me
Sara Brummer Dec 2018
PARKINSON’S

One slow step follows another
Limbs still bound to earth by
The golden cords of love.
At night, my dream self,
Startled awake, I watch
From my window as one star
Tips the dipper,

My strength has gone
To well-water, frozen  
In winter, convinced
That spring must arrive
By dawn, but hope has
Blown away like the petals
Of late summer roses,

As I watch that silly moth
Circling the candle flame,
Longing to become Buddha,
I wait for the cure, a guest
That may arrive too late.
You are in a recliner
M.A.S.H. is on the T.V.
A boy moves you to a wheelchair
White doors
Hallway
Small reuban cube dinner
Thickened water
Chocolate ice cream
White fabric
White light
Black curtains
Banita khanal Apr 2016
I don’t fight with Parkinson's
I live with it,
I have Parkinson's
and Parkinson's do have me,
I don’t hate Parkinson's
I want to fall in love with it,
We aren’t each other's enemy
We are the soul mates;

I born with each step of my leg
then I die
I born again with the another step
then I die
so my life is just about a foot step;

I don’t think about the distance I need to walk
I think about the step I take

I nomore struggle to get rid of parkinsons
rather I try to adjust

I have accepted it
I respect myself for it

I don’t hate parkinsons
I want to fall in love with it
I have Parkinsons disease
et  rystende maleri. han har brugt lang tid på det, får jeg at vide

det ligner noget et barn har tegnet. bogstaverne er runde
       og vaklende og skæve. han har malet farverne ind over hinanden.

det rammer som en snestorm, som en iskold bølge inde i hjernen, tårerne som spor af følelsen

                  kernen af et menneske, hvem er man når den svinder, når den
           ryster og hiver efter vejret og falder
og langsomt smelter bort?

        det er smertefuldt at være vidne til. forsvinder han? er det hans sidste maleri?

                ikke til at holde ud,    jeg må væk,    jeg må besøge ham eller
         skrive   et   digt, jeg må gøre noget

for ellers flyder jeg over

     af salte, kolde bølger der vælder

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