With Disease

I.

Living with this disease

is like living beneath a storm cloud

constantly collecting energy

constantly growing, looming, expanding over seas

becoming super saturated with anguish

with hands clasped for a single wish

for there to be rain, but no thunder.

II.

Living with this depression

is like dwelling in another dimension

in another time frame

everyone is moving forward towards the future

while all I experience is regression

of mental perception

one day I’m fine, and the next it’s a lie,

but when I’m racing towards the winner’s seat,

I’m always in a tie

with defeat.

III.

Living with an autoimmune disease is

wearing a shroud of death that no one else can see

but you

in the mirror, there it is, draped

over slouched shoulders,

caressing your cheek

and ever-present reminder that you are a black sheep

You try to move forward—like anyone would

but the shroud grows heavier,

a wet sheet that dampens the ground where you stood.

Reminding you that a single step took hours of sweat.

Reminding you that your body is your nemesis,

that there is no real ‘me.’

Because if the enemy of my enemy is my friend,

and my mind is my own worst enemy,

then all that leaves me with is spirit.

Unfortunately, I’m in no mood for out-of-body

experiences

when every day has me hanging from fences

by the collar of that shroud.