How I felt then

This poem I wrote a year ago, I believe what I wrote then as I do today. 


My mess/ms

I sat in my wheelchair, afraid and alone,
I hate being here I want to go home,
The thought of just sitting, for the rest of my life,
Cuts into my heart, like a long jagged knife,
Is this it, right now, how life is to be,
But luckily not, not happening to me,

Suicide was no option, that road I wont take,
But consider just this, ms maybe fake,
I focussed my mind on alternative routes,
Eventually I’ll succeed, in giving the boot,
My first port of call, a physio called Louise,
Who actually listened and did humour me,

And thank God that she did, acupuncture she gave,
Now that wheelchair sits there, I wont be its slave,
As time did pass by, the better I’d feel,
I’m liking this hand, a much fairer deal.
I’m back on my feet, with my walker ahead,
But I now know I wont, be forever in bed,

Its all so complex, a hell of a mess,
This stupid disease, that they all call ms,
I will not conform, there are answers I seek,
I will not just sit, shut up and be weak,
I will continue my quest, for however long,
They need not prove me right, but just prove wrong,

Stress is the worst thing, to let it all grow,
The effect it sure has, only I seem to know,
Stress feeds through your day, from morning to night,
It wont let you rest, its always in sight.
Stress feeds off stress and then feeds my mess,
It gets bigger and bigger and never gets less.

Its hard I now know to break into this house,
But my stress now lays quiet like some kind of mouse,
The bladder’s the key,  break the link in that chain,
And now I can watch it, go off with its pain,
When the link has been broken, you begin to live life,
Ms didn’t break me, and make me its wife.

I have taken it slow, at my kind of pace,
Not rushed or fought it, as is complex like lace,
But now that I see, now what hides it all,
I want to tell others, just give them a call,
Prognosis alone, causes all kinds of stress,
But strip it away, and there is no ms

By ME