Alone in a room with a warm bed I hear someone crying, Oh, is that me?
Stinging salt oozing from pores, this lopsided woman, how tired can she be?

Misfiring, misshapen, nerves pleading for balance to keep me complete.
Hope that late morning relieves pin-cushioned noodles as helpmates, called feet.

Lightening strikes and I am trying to quiet the soaring, roaring, hot pokers in my brain.
The sour odor of raw fear that nothing has a chance if she drowns in jagged pain.

Her majesty Mt. Vesuvius gurgles down a long dark hallway; it's not the abdominal flu.
As nauseating grey fills the room, incapacitating knowledge that "no one has a clue."

A balloon in my body, a reservoir for waste, where medications cause aliens to cling.
Burning need to find comfort and helplessness causing a heartbreaking sting.

Protrusions called fingers, these swollen appendages called hands aren't much.
Bathe the lumps called knuckles with liniment, peppermint, capsacian, and such.

I scrutinize my clothing, right down to my bra, shearing constriction pains my soul.
These years with pain, fatigue and knotted muscles have taken their toll.

Trying to survive with family and friends, I hear laughter and music and people having fun.
They're gaily singing lyrics I used to love, and now convoluted, and warped, I want to run.

Warm summer beaches with breezes like ice with no help to vessels so cold they are numb.
The odor of flesh swirling a cyclone in air and blood not knowing which direction to come.

Muscles that give up and insides feel bruised. Sounds of ripping of tissue, is it made of cloth?
Is another therapy a love gone wrong? So exhausted, like a workhorse asleep at the trough.

From doctors, to family, friends, and more, caring scant sharing for fear they won't believe.
Conserving my energy for when it is needed I loose trust in relationships, and for this, I grieve.

Please pay attention, oh, I thought I was, A bump on a log, blank as a slate.
"What were you saying? I've forgotten" she responds "Weren't you listening? I better skate."

Dropping and slopping, this syndrome and me. Wishing others could respond with more ease.
Pain and brainfog are not and excuse, with fatigue and exhaustion they are part disease.

Invisible like a ghost at no moon that is why I have this broken tear.
Fragments wet this paper, because for you not to hear me is my greatest fear.