ME II: The Grace of Suffering
At the depths of despair there is laughter,
When the realization of the pointlessness of suffering dawns .
Yet there is no escape from these unyielding prisons,
Crippled by disease not yet known to man.
They say in suffering is hidden mercy,
But I don't see it;
All I know is my body is slowly unravelling,
And my soul is endlessly wailing as each breath unstitches a semblance of my being.
This cruel torment that can deceive And make you look well with one surge of adrenaline That moments has you crashing down The stair of this unending fortress Isolating, abandoned and yet so painfully misrepresenting Its emaciation for antiquity.
How can you see what is being consumed from within?
You think because you care about me That makes me invincible to the fate of so many others? It does not. This is not some notion, Stop telling me I’m beautiful, My suffering is not a palette And this is not a work of art.
I keep crying to you in the stillness But no one would hear me No one will hear me in this silent storm, My wailing is muted in the cavern of my being, The burning sun scorching me from within.
My body is for them To mask reality, My skin a painted veil over a raging fire, To feed their denial, To fund their somatoform lies. How can so much be concealed by so little? I fear they will not come for me until it’s too late, Until I am but a human form, Consumed like volcanic ash.
Makes me think that ...
For some ME means Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. This is poem two in a series of four.
It could be you. Join our team of readers.
More people are writing and thinking about work-based poetry. Does this poem make you think of anything? Send your thoughts to email@example.com.
Send a poem you've written or one you like and we'll share it with other WorkInWords readers