Sometimes just sounds better that way, when the usual word is worn out.
I write terrible poetry. Be forewarned
That while the world is in a semi-fixed state I am not.
Not predictable like the tides; there are no little flip books to gauge the shifts in my moods.
I don’t know how others see me; I present a front–does it work?
I have few friends, it’s easier that way, to keep up the charade,
Because one thing I hate above all others is being misunderstood;
The fear of rejection, the fear of loss, the fear of holding on too tight.
Yet there are so few who understand, where it’s safe to be myself.
“Just suck it up, get it together, what’s wrong with you, you look perfectly fine.
There’s no reason for you to be so tired, it’s not as if you’re sick or anything like that.
There are people who have it so much worse than you, you should be grateful for what you have.
How long will all this take?
Do your part, get a job, contribute something to the world, to your upkeep, at least.”
If I stopped eating would I feel less guilty?
If I could sustain myself on the air, the same air I breathe to try to stay calm.
My focus, my attention, in altered states from new medications.
To sleep, and yes, to dream–quite vividly–a side effect, it seems.
I do have a sense of humor, a fairly quick wit; that’s not a charade.
My Kafkaesque armadillo to keep me safe.
(I think it would be difficult to get an armadillo into a straight jacket)
Does it work, my front? I don’t know how others see me,
With my invisible disabilities.