© Andy Carrington, 2009.
http://www.andycarrington.co.uk/
Crohnies
There is a rare poem in each of us buried
somewhere within our wounded hearts;
And for those that have no known cause or cure,
here be an open, organic form to detail with our every word.
Call it faith,
or a credo of personal truths;
I am not interested in writing sonnets
when moments we each have cried,
in fear, to the stale scent
of our covering blankets.
We suffer, And we’re expected to fail,
Yet as individuals we still manage
to keep fighting on, And this, surely, must be considered an art:
The first discipline in conquering the simple, mundane
tasks that have become our daily challenge.
Yes, we are artists, Never considered
to be “normal”,
Not when we have caressed the palms of spirits
within the depths of our dreams.
We meet daily with our fears and never take
for granted our imagination;
We are strong,
Looking through an ecru window
to the outside world,
away from the doctors who take away
our morphine, and those awful nurses
who force us to eat.
We believe,
That one day we will taste the outside air,
free from pain and the need for meds
… in health, deserving better.Labels: Poem