"neurosis" poems
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen
peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack
folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
I love my country: India , but
I hate many of its rulers, as
they speak for the poor and
act for tycoons bellicose, and-
Diversity sighs in armed Unity;
The selfish corrupted in unity
March ahead on graves crafty.
I love my country: India , but
August fifteenth : with freedom,
opened all devilish forces
out of Hell to fell all virtues.
Grim faced Buddha smiles
Like a nuclear Phantom ,his
tears drip on tomb of Peace.
No white dove sits on dome
It bleeds in the lap of Buddha.
If birth is the cause of gloom.
who stops one from bloom?
Dearth of berth clamour for
Death of birth at the womb.
I love my country: India , but
Souls are free on lovely Earth
Lay bodies strain to survive.
A nominal word equanimity
Gushes in landslide infirmity.
Service becomes self –service,
In black ink sleeps Socialism.
Fear Neurosis like King Kamsa
Keeps Liberty behind the bars.
Healthy, wealthy Bharat Matha
Groans in labour room for Santi.
Note: 1). August fifteenth= 15 August 1947 when India became free from Briton. 2).Buddha=Gutham Buddha(Prince Sidhardha) who established Buddhism.3).Kamsa= The mythological character , uncle of Lord Krishna who chained even his sister Devaki out of the fear psychosis. 4),Bharat Matha= Indians consider Bharat/India as their Mother(Matha)-so it is Mother land not Fatherland for them .Santi/Shanti=a Sanskrit word used in Vedas and Upanishads of India which means Peace or Islam.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that ******** heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus
Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis
I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren
So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body
I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too
Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
F
M
Agender
Androgyne
Androgynous
Bigender
Cis
Cisgender
Cisgender female
Cisgender male
FTM
Gender fluid
Gender non-confirming
Gender questioning
Gender variant
Gender queer
Intersex
MTF
Neither
Neurosis
Non binary
Other
Pan gender
Trans
Trans*
Trans female
Trans* female
Trans male
Trans* male
Trans feminine
Trans musculine
Transgender
Transgender female
Transgender male
Transgender musculine
Transgender feminine
***********
*********** female
*********** male
Two spirit
And
"Turquoise green tertiary spirited Eskimo"
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
She is a succulent bunch,let me be helpful,
if you don't get the complex chemical scent,
I call her ,"a girl of unpredictable
meeting places"inotropic, is her effect,
She sends heartbeats way up.
Delectable too, she was, every time
I tasted certain parts of her.
Her avatars are numerous, like Hindu Gods
With specific intention for each incarnation
Onee will be pushed in to neurosis,
if doesn't completely relish her infinite variety.
She is a cryptic mystic,
for a while from signals
I discerned and firmly believed
Or is she just a creature mysterious
Doubt raises it's head, like a lotus
From slushy pond
My eyes met her at the level of her eyes first,
the rest in a haze to me was invisible,
Then my heart sends a message
"Right now, I missed a beat here"
Heart then recites a poem,
tells me, it is all her making
"Don't fall in love" heart's advice,
"Go, dissolve in her completely"
Even my own heart has crossed sides,
or is it truly an advice for my sake?
Love is a hallucinogen, get it?
she whistles like wind at bamboo groves
from within sings like a thrush,
she is a magpie, or is she a koel?
Nocturnal animal, in need of mating,
making calls, frantic SMS, incessant.
She is wind and water, elements
that make one burn and drown
She spreads her yoga mat on the floor,
asks me to sit cross legged Indian style,
I am already for that in my mind,
So I spread eagle in corpse pose, indicating, "All through my life", mother earth gives me warmth.
Shanti, Shanti, shanti
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
Complex PTSD made even more complex by frequent bouts of mild psychosis.
Neurosis.
Impulsivity.
Mood swings.
Suicidal tendencies.
Inconsistent personality.
Writing uncontrollably.
Questionable hygiene.
Obsessive pineapple eating.
Veganism.
Atheism.
Humanism.
And I have a horrible sense of direction.
Wait,
What was the question?
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
Expanding, contracting, waxing, waning.
On the edge of your seat, eyes drooping shut.
Enthralled by boredom, hairs standing on end.
Three bites deep in a paradox sandwich,
Garnished with an oh so subtle hint of neurosis.
Seduced by a routine predisposition.
Reason fading away into subtle redundancy.
Redundancy
Redundancy
Redundancy
REEEEEEDDDDDUUUUUNNNNDDDDDAAAANNNNCCCCCYYYYY.
Hey, would it be redundant...
If I said redundancy?
Did I say that already?
Yeah?
Better be sure cause homie don't play that.
(Which leads to the distinct and important point that there was once someone narrating this... hey wait. Well, who's doing it now? Seems sort of strange that these words are still somehow finding their way into your- oh wait, he's back!)
Or am I? How do you know?
Maybe...
I was just an illusion this whole time!!1!!11
...and then all of the sudden, it's 5:00 AM.
Again... seriously?
HOW DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?!?!?!?!?!
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
You fall too hard and you fall too fast
Don't you know you had what lasts?
And I say had
Because it's past tense
I'm sorry that "til death"
Did you part after only a quarter of a century
Makes a man think
It's ok to be scared of loneliness
It's ok to be afraid there's no more shared happiness
It's just a neurosis though
You know that right?
It's ok to feel like you're swimming in the ocean of your bed
And the coast guard is
Not on the way
To save you
Being single after taking vows
Is more than unfortunate
Worse than divorcing
She died
And I think you should be selfish
Just for a while, dad
Because you fall too far
And you fall too fast
Don't you know meteors burn themselves up
Doing just that?
Don't you remember
Camping out in the laundry room
Explaining falling objects and gravity
(which I still don't believe by the way)
Pointing at the sky out the window
Teaching your 6 year old
About the iron:nickel ratios?
Saying "Don't wake mom."
And dad, moons will glide in and out of orbit
Around you
And the vacuum of space
Will at times be filled with your loneliness
And longing for the past
And you'll keep falling fast
Burning up in the atmosphere
Leaving little craters here
And there
From the impact you have
On her
And her
And her
And your highschool girlfriend
And your daughters
And that woman in your yoga class
It's ok
You fall too hard
And you fall too fast
Don't you know
Only superman could survive an impact like that?
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
*oh you
body of a woman
you've cried in the dark to long
with your enormous thrilling charm
you
under my skin
with your blood thirsty neurosis
like a queer moon
begging to be hollowed out
slow and cruel, you begged
calling me sir, like that
your mouth gleaming wet
your eyes piercing like flashing cleavers
you groan wild
like a hyena on fire
leaving all sense behind
saying yes to my darkest of whims
and weeping echoes
darker
darker and darker yet
twist me in circles
and circles in circles
my soul a rioting expectation
she eats the backward apple
God knew you would
the sadist
good destroys
evil heals
you eat apples of sin galore
your **** puffs
a fluttering gate drooling
madness, all Adamite
an iron jawed angel
tides of panic in the dark
kisses that ground you down
paralyzed by the black pit
true will of desire
atavistic compulsions torrential
pain that makes beauty stunning
pain that hums
like needles and tongues
sliding curves
milk and blood
doomed by carnal opportunity
under leaves of darkening green
depth charge
shifting flesh
towards a swift arrow
i am a sudden storm
like Caligula's kisses
and you are absolute sacrifice
draped drooling
in heavens arms
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Slither within my spine
Wither, within my mind
Doctor Jekyll, Mr. Hyde
One coin, two sides
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
*Love’s a fragrant rose
A sparkly luminescent red
Like beetroot with a thorny side to dread
Orchard fresh, exquisite and breathtaking like a polyphonic prose.
It’s cupid’s ingenious marvel
A force with a whirlpool effect
That sweeps it’s ‘victims’ off their feet their hearts swelling with deject
It’s undoubtedly the tower of babel
Only that its structure’s amorphous
Always changing in a constant state of ‘metamorphosis.
Being in the arms of Morpheus
Is indeed more gratifying as opposed to being diagnosed with hysterical neurosis
Methinks love thou art an extinct phenomenon
Buried deep in the abyss of emotional confusion.*
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
Laughter at the pirate ship wreck
Incarcerated alibi.
Self-doubt and enemy envy.
Post neurosis mental chariot waiting patient set to test and task the palatial steel ballast.
Starting to startle itself awake according to twilight reporting recognized first and focused lazily to be remembered later for the first half percent.
Decent decline descending darkness ascending atoms attending arson. Gallant grey nose for cold weather bubbling wound **** streak pillow.
Plain sight eyes glazing reminiscent veteran folded over beer bottle drunk at home the unknown soldier.
Spirit spear piercing glowing nexus weightless flying high shadows vacant samurai clutch in an adjacent basement.
Bleeding bone fractured paper homes manufactured homeless jeering platelet picked and cast like a rune on your first born baby blanket.
Hallow, heated, grave displayed, and looped backwards.
Happy fishing!
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
Well I’ve lived a life just like yours
But I made some choices that were poor
So instead of having it my way
I’m selling flowers on the highway
I have a home but it moves around a lot
Maybe my rent’s the one thing I forgot
If I had my choice I’d dream by day
But for now I’m selling flowers on the highway
And somewhere, somehow, a man in a suit is burning sage
And somewhere, somehow, a woman in a dress is filled with rage
I’d like to tell them all to be proud, witty and gay
But instead I’m selling flowers on the highway
And these roads have an ego, about the size of a town
And the faceless people driving by, to me they look like clowns
Maybe I’m getting old, maybe I just need to feel okay
But for now, I’m stuck here, selling flowers on the highway
I’ve got hyacinths, marigolds and roses
I’ve got one cure for my neurosis
So pass me the bottle, if you may
I’m stuck here selling flowers on the highway
I just want to walk like I usually do
Beneath the tall buildings on the avenue
But for now I’ll bask in the sun’s rays
I’m just a human being, selling flowers on the highway
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
no, I wasn't always like this
I used to cry about the ozone layer
now excess calories upset me
more than excess carbon emissions
these days I spend half my life
inside parentheses
the other half with a therapist
she says I see too many things to be happy
but it's hard to shut your eyes
when clothes pins made of neurosis
keep them open until four in the morning
so I've learned to sleep with an eye mask
and a blanket of NyQuil
because there isn't a pill
for severe self awareness
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
You love my light, but can you embrace my darkness?
My madness, my neurosis, my insecurities?
You love my laugh, but can you love my tears and my scars and my pain as deeply as you love my joy?
You're willing to bask in my glistening iridescent infinite divine red aura splattered in gold tones...but will you be there when I'm unable to lift myself from the abyss of my ever churning, ever condemning, overthinking mind?
You want to celebrate my successes, but are you willing not to be overly critical of my failed attempts?
Are you willing to encourage me and believe in me when I can't do it for myself?
I'm simultaneously
happy and sad,
hot and cold,
unfettered and bound,
knowing and ignorant,
open and closed,
sure and unsure,
deep and shallow,
obsessed and unconcerned
...can you handle that?
Can you handle me?
Is it too dizzying of a realization that every part of me has a deep opposing counterpart?
Will you stay?
Will you leave? If so- I've just given you permission to do whatever you feel that you need...
You can't have my light without my darkness. You can't have my joy and discard my pain. You can't have my sanity without my insanity. You can't gather the things that you like and discard the ugly parts, further fragmenting my already fragmented soul...
Every part of me longs to feel the warmth of the sun
Every part of me longs to shown off like a most prized possession
Every part of me longs to be nurtured and cared for and protected and validated
Not by everyone- but by YOU
I don't need them. I just need you
Every part of me longs to be seen by you
felt by
loved by
You.
Every. Part.
See my heart, taste my thoughts, feel the colors of my memories
Into me see
Intimacy
~KiCo!
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
The Divide as it whispers:
"borderline," and calls you
to the throne of denigration,
like a hawk soars towards
a cute quivering corpse.
We all must eat to live.
Loving only to be loved,
your Love is Fear that,
spreads the thighs of Hate,
suspends the golden rule,
and dips the tip of Trust.
Light bends in clear waters.
The border of "neurosis"
and "psychosis" never met
your gentle river eyes, that
twirl like a child's, hugging
the silent shivering creature.
Squeeze tight until it dies.
"Researchers coined the term “borderline” in the first half of this century, when they thought that people who exhibited behaviors we now associate with BPD were on the border between neurosis and psychosis. Although this concept was discarded in the 1970s, the name stuck." - Paul T. Mason, M.S. and Randi Kreger
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Where am i ?
What i'm doing here ?
I'm looking through my shadow
But what do i see ?
Black soul , maniac thoughts
How am i still living ?
I'm "almost" destroyed mentally
Physically strong as rock
Why can't i control myself ?
I'm so insecure , immature
I'm having Schizophrenia
Dementia praecox
Fundamental derangement of my mind
Probably caused by an emotional disorder
Emotional illness affecting in my personality
I'm Neurosis , Neurasthenic
Nerve dysfunction
I'm walking away
To forget all this pain
To walk and never get back
Part of my body already dead
I don't know if i'm going to survive
From this midlife crisis
This is nothing that elapsed
I'm sure it's just the beginning of hell
Half spent
Not much left
That's how it used to be
That's how it going to be
Struggling with desease
Smiling is hard but easy
As much as slutty
Psychotic confession
Irritability
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Don’t fear your fear
Or even anxiety –
Nagging Neurosis:
Even if it makes you pour with sweat
And tremble.
Don’t fight your fear,
Or seek to suppress it.
Don’t dumb it down
With tranquilisers and the like.
No need to be Superman,
Nor Wonder Woman.
No need for Spock-like Volcan
Emotional mind-control.
You aint a wimp
Because you are afraid.
Don’t bury your fear
Or shake it off.
Just Listen to it!
For Fear’s a Warning.
It’s doing a job.
A Red or Yellow Alert.
Warning You
About what?
Through fear we survive
To thrive.
In bygone days it saved us
From dinosaurs and sabre-toothed
Tigers.
What is the danger now?
What are you doing wrong?
How are you putting yourself
At risk?
What terrors lie along this path?
What are your instincts whispering
In your ear?
Intuition tells you what?
What is there to fear?
Just listen
And feel.
Embrace your fear.
Survive
To thrive.
Paul Butters
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
"Love is the only poetry there is. All other poetry is just a reflection of it. The poetry may be in sound, the poetry may be in stone, the poetry may be in the architecture, but basically these are all reflections of love caught in different mediums. But the soul of poetry is love, and those who live love are the real poets. They may never write poems, they may never compose any music - they may never do anything that people ordinarily think of as art - but those who live love, love utterly, totally, are the real poets. Religion is true if it creates the poet in you. If it kills the poet and creates the so-called saint, it is not religion. It is pathology, a kind of neurosis garbed in religious terms. Real religion always releases poetry in you, and love and art and creativity; it makes you more sensitive. You throb more, your heart has a new beat to it. Your life is no longer a boring, stale phenomenon. It is constantly a surprise, and each moment opens new mysteries. Life is an inexhaustible treasure, but only the heart of the poet can know it. I don't believe in philosophy, I don't believe in theology, but I believe in poetry."
— Osho, Everyday Osho: 365 Daily Meditations for the Here and Now
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
I’m not going crazy.
I’m not being lazy.
Please don’t be a grouch
If I want to lie on the couch
And do nothing much today.
Believe me when I say
It’s not what you think
It’s not from drugs or drink.
It’s not a neurosis
It’s Multiple Sclerosis.
I may seem to stagger
I can no longer swagger.
So, understand this please
I can’t command my knees.
I’m fighting back day and night
And I won’t give up the fight.
What looks like one thing
Can be a much worse thing.
It’s not a neurosis
It’s Multiple Sclerosis.
Life is so full of challenges.
The list of what the damage is
Sometimes seems to outweigh
The cost of living life today.
But, I will not ever surrender.
I must be my best defender
As nobody pays my body bill.
I fight despair and always will.
It’s not a neurosis
It’s Multiple Sclerosis.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC