Sometimes I'm at war. I wonder who's winning?
But I'm not.
I wasn't made for this.
For doctor's offices and pills and prescriptions.
For promises of a normal life.
Whatever that is.
Appointment days I shower and put on makeup
and get dressed.
Like going into battle.
Preparing for war.
My assault on the world of medicine has gone on
for years.
I defer, deflect good advice and bad
like arrows, lances, swords.
They tell me what to eat, when to sleep,
what to think. Although they
relish prohibition more.
It's not the breaking of rules that's hard,
it's the vague feelings of guilt when you do.
Bored with the fighting, I let loose
bombs of truth, volleys of honesty.
Surprised, they lose their grip
on their smiles, concerned expressions.
Then I employ a sweep of lies
to keep them off balance.
This one-two punch of deceit/candor
is all I've been able to come up with.
I still take the pills
My illness doesn't go away
My fifty minutes up,
I drag myself off the battlefield.
And down the hall.
And out the door.
Tired of concentrating.
Tired of everything.
© 2006 Anne Westlund
Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 675 times
Written on 2006-10-01 at 21:16
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Battle Wounds
Waiting rooms are made for waiting.But I'm not.
I wasn't made for this.
For doctor's offices and pills and prescriptions.
For promises of a normal life.
Whatever that is.
Appointment days I shower and put on makeup
and get dressed.
Like going into battle.
Preparing for war.
My assault on the world of medicine has gone on
for years.
I defer, deflect good advice and bad
like arrows, lances, swords.
They tell me what to eat, when to sleep,
what to think. Although they
relish prohibition more.
It's not the breaking of rules that's hard,
it's the vague feelings of guilt when you do.
Bored with the fighting, I let loose
bombs of truth, volleys of honesty.
Surprised, they lose their grip
on their smiles, concerned expressions.
Then I employ a sweep of lies
to keep them off balance.
This one-two punch of deceit/candor
is all I've been able to come up with.
I still take the pills
My illness doesn't go away
My fifty minutes up,
I drag myself off the battlefield.
And down the hall.
And out the door.
Tired of concentrating.
Tired of everything.
© 2006 Anne Westlund
Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 675 times
Written on 2006-10-01 at 21:16
Tags Challenge
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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