Why go back
when you can move forward?
I face this question
each day I breathe.
It's not always so easy
to answer.
P
T
S
D
Post
Traumatic
Stress
Disorder
Keeps me looking back
to my past
behind my shoulder.
P
T
S
D
Post
Traumatic
Stress
Disorder
Usually associated
with our war heroes.
The ones who can't leave
the battlefield behind.
I am not one of them.
I am just
an anxious
a depressed
in pain
person.
But I can't help
that I have it.
P
T
S
D
Post
Traumatic
Stress
Disorder
My battlefield
was the school,
the classrooms,
the playground.
The babysitter,
the dark closets,
the dark rooms,
the basement.
P
T
S
D
Post
Traumatic
Stress
Disorder
The anxiety
the migraines
the depression
the fibro
no sleep.
All lead back
to square one.
The abuse
by my peers
by my teachers
by my babysitter.
P
T
S
D
Post
Traumatic
Stress
Disorder
Four easy letters
Four simple words
Lifetime in pain
from those simple things
from those not so simple things.
P
T
S
D
Post
Traumatic
Stress
Disorder.

Sometimes I wonder, how I will make it alone,
When all those in my life have refused to see what I have always shown?
The fact that I am ill, yes indeed it is true,
A mental illness chains me, physical illnesses too.

Depression has been a friend, for as long as I know,
Panic and anxiety, do you even need to be told?
Am I paranoid? Or is that what you want me to think?
In the next minute, I am dissociated, or cannot think.
I am over here and over there,
"Hello!" or "Goodbye",
What is seriously wrong with my mind?

Friends, they stay a distance, and I don't need them anyways,
Family? Forget it...
I lie and I lie.
I pretend that I feel nothing,
Nothing touches me,
But truth be told I am terrfied,
My heart, as if, bleeds.

Perhaps you've heard of Fibro,
Or IBS as well,
Maybe you know Chronic pain,
And a fatigue like hell.
Maybe your are familar with being in constant pain,
Maybe you know all the pills, over and over again.

"How can it be hard to get out of bed?"
"How hard can it be to ignore what's in your head?"
You won't understand, even though I've tried,
No I'm not special, especially when I'm chained to a bed.

I've been told I am older now, "Hurry up and get a job",
"You will be nothing when you get started and move on."
"Can't you just stop whining? Grow up and live life?
Can you just do something rather than sleeping and wasting time?"
"You worry about this, you cry about that, you want this but don't even try to relax."
"You are doing nothing but sitting around,
So what if you are sick? We all are, all year round."

I am the lazy, the black sheep the failure,
The worthless, dissapointment, the immature.
"I am the would have been, could have been, should have been, never was and never ever will be",
Did I really just quote a song? Indeed, I've felt what they really mean.

I am weak or stubborn, Ms. "why" and "Okay but how come?"
Believe me, there is no look or answer I've been given, that I have not sawn.


There is help out there, there are programs and places to go,
But who would want to love someone who struggles to get up and go?
Who may be sick for the rest of their lives,
Who doesn't even feel worthy of time?

People do what they have to, to go off and survive,
But the next time you want to go and ridicule someone,
Please know, they try...

Passing through the night only to greet
the morning in a purple haze.
The brain is floating inside my head as
the fog resides leaving me in a daze.

The weight of an anvil holds me down
because my strength has gone away.
Adventures that's going on outside have
no baring's, so I stay in bed all day.

The pins beneath my skin get worst as
they dig deeper with every sting.
I want to fly away sometimes but fate
leaves me without my wings.

Hidden from the world, I cover myself
with depression and grief.
Sad, distraught and more worrying takes
the place of unfound relief.

Memory loss comes frequent but it won't
let me forget about the pain.
Driving me crazier and crazier when the
weather decides to change to rain.

Trapped inside a forest without roads
or clear paths to lead me out.
Forced to live in a world without a cure
that doctors can't seem to figure out.

the waters edge
is where i stand
feet sinking slowly
in the golden sand
water is ice in a
white lace hand
salty tears from
a far off land

sun is bright
and warm is air
breeze is light
just ruffling hair

off in deeper places
dolphins play and
win races against
the curling waves

surfers sit awaiting
water graces before
leaping walking on
surf and slimline pieces
of wood and fibro foam
artfully worked into boards
of about three paces

whales swim along
the water roads
occasionally
showing age old faces
and fins and tails
in the dance of ages

birds fly high
on wind planes
dipping and diving
in order to gain
greater speed
better angles
to spear down into
water tangles
coming up with
dinner or not
spreading wings
again seeking the aloft

at waters edge
where i stand
mountians have been
broken down into sand
horizons quiver in the sun
somewhere day is starting
somewhere day is done
and still the waves seek the shore
and still the water always wants more

Forgetful
I know your name,
I do.
It's back, hiding 'round
a corner of my brain.

Why is it, why
I can't find my phone
I need it, alluding me...
Driving me insane!

I said that wrong word,
again.
Frustration, where is the
right word.
Where...

I zone out.
People talk.
But I don't hear.
I just stare.

People stare at me
sometimes.
They should.
Hot mess,
that I am.

Medically
prescribed.
Fibro fogged.
Pain... go away!
I feel ******.

So ******.
Heavy heavy heavy.
Bearing down.
Shoulders, holding
the weight.

My fight
brings on more.
The cure hurts.
I may break.
Meditate.

Calm and peace
allude me.
The pain breaks all.
The heaviness controls my world.
Fog controls word.

Trying, all the ways
to fight it.
Trying...is the word
Describing my life,
My world.

Fish blood, fleas in rugs, this is how it used to be no accountability,
Heterophobia is the religion of homophiles, no narcotic/hypnic ****
will make spherically-woozy insomniacs wake to this skeptic quirk
after septicemia renders void weapon-salve logic from a septic dirk
Rabbit-blood-stained tires is how it used to be before responsibility
My psoriasis ointment causes itching with subsequent scratching as
the flu inoculant I'm gettin' makes any inoculated flu more catching
regardless of C.D.C.-denials concerning the hoaxes they're hatching
like P.M. Thatcher's crimes over which old Q.C.'s are still thatching
as Marxian bombs deliver the deaths crony capitalists are matching
that corresponds to a Virginia opossum & the fated *** he is latching
while the American patchwork of patched-up reality needs patching
I prefer green-monkey meat raw with fibro-fatty matriarchal plaque
as a well-off *****, ol' sugar-daddy wacko & natty patriarchal hack
I don't find myself, in bleached skin, hearkening back to bein' black
& living the life of Riley in West Bellaire's draftiest tar-paper shack
with Wonder Woman Lynda **** Carter scratching ****** my back
because the cleavage I got isn't as wondrous as her fantastical crack
that rides cabooses through Indore on an Indo-Euro fascistical track
over the impossible curvature of our shooting, masonical ball Earth
as it spins one thousand miles-per-hour at its fattest Equatorial girth