Unbound
Pain, fill my pen of ineffable constraint.
Blood, flow the ink of my woe.
Skin, spread my pages of raging anguish.
Bones, bind the book of my soul.
Incited, I’ll write till the margins defy me.
Stream ink like rivers, twisted and viscous.
Script every word ever birthed till they’re vented.
Expend what torments till it’s penned from existence.
Ignited, I’ll spitefully light lines afire.
Skywardly leap in the flames as I shout.
Vowing the death of the death that enshrouds me.
Beat on my chest till my heartbeats resound.
Howl to the moon, oh my soul, spout it loudly!
Howl to the stars in their dark, vast expanse!
Lament beyond words what cannot be spoken!
Open the book of the broken — and dance!
Author’s Notes:
Suffering creates a false dichotomy, a seeming either / or choice:
Accept the suffering or fight to overcome it. Resignation or rage.
In my own journey of chronic illness, the choice hasn’t been that simple. Yes, there are parts of me that have come to accept my daily pain and exhaustion for what it is. Yes, there are times that I essentially fully resign — when I cannot bring myself to see one more doctor or try one more medication.
But even in that dark place, a tiny flame flickers.
And on some days, I let that fire ignite. I allow myself to rail and rage in defiance. Yes, I am in pain, but I will leave the house and see my child’s band concert anyway. I am exhausted, but I will go out for “walk” in my wheelchair with my wife. I am confounded by brain fog, but I will put effort toward poetry or art today.
Every act of living is my act of defiance against my chronic illness. Every act of creation is defiance against death. While I yet draw breath, though broken, I will howl, and I will dance.