This doesn’t have
A lot of metaphor, or simile,
Or writing techniques, or style,
Or rhyming structure, or metre;
To be honest it’s barely a poem,
and that’s fine because I’m barely
a poet.
To be honest, I’m a mess.
Mental health in decline,
Pretending to be fine,
Being confined,
Just reclined
On this sofa.
Where the cushions, the blanket, the duvet, the laundry, and emotions accumulate and
lie across my chest like a
heavy
warm
comfortable
something.
© Emilie C. Black, Apr 2020
I am sick,
I am sick of being sick.
It’s been six or seven years of
Things being in a constant state of wrong
With my brain and my body and
Being used as a punching bag by bugs and infections,
Leaving bruises, scars and lesions and being beaten
Black, blue and bloody by my immune system
And I am sick of it.
I spent seventeen years in education
Yet my blood, brain and urine
Have been through more tests than me.
And they don’t get it easy because
There’s no pass or fail,
Just sets of numbers I don’t understand
And positives that can have negative connotations
And negatives which could be the best thing for me.
I’ve spent the last five years,
Going in and out of doctors and hospitals
Leaving barely enough time for the revolving doors to spin,
Travelling between wards and beds like
Hotel rooms on the worst overnight stay of my life,
Never staying still long enough to sleep
Or see the latest test result.
I’m treated like a science experiment,
Laid bare for doctors and nurses to test
Both myself and themselves.
I feel like a broken vending machine,
With pills being poured into my mouth
Like pound coins of imprecision
By professionals who can only pray for
The right result.
I’ve spent far too long
Being a rebel crying out for change
Being told that my version of better isn’t the best thing for me,
I’m sick of waiting for eventually and tomorrow and the next day,
I’m sick of wasting my life away in
A busy hospital terminal, waiting for my
Flight number to be up.
Question from my good friend, Courtney.
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