I want to read and learn all I can, write thoughtfully and truthfully, live according to reason and ever more mature wisdom, and savor every wonderful little gift of life.
I struggle uphill, slow, sighing,
fighting through my tasks and goals,
but even small ambitions cost
me pain and loss of strength as tolls.
Some things help, some don’t. Bad and good
days come and go, like the rushed doctors
who don’t know how to help me, though
I know it’s not their fault, of course.
My family, helpless, worries and
searches for something new to try.
If I tell others, “Chronic Fatigue
Syndrome,” they say (or think) I lie,
that there’s really no reason why
I can’t do everything they do,
only laziness—I look fine.
Ooh, I see red—but understand, too.
This illness is unseen, but real,
my mysterious enemy,
my lot in life, at least for now,
and my teacher, and my sentry.