Battle Wounds

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I always have time enough to read a whole article in a doctor's office waiting room.

Submitted: February 27, 2008

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Submitted: February 27, 2008

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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. © Anne Westlund 2006

Tired of everything. 5/28/05

 

Image:  swords by ks (stock.xchng.com)


© Copyright 2017 Anne Westlund. All rights reserved.

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