"The music is different now. But it's still there."

First an update on the blog- I have added email subscription to make it easier to keep up with the blog. You simply put your email in on the right and will get an email every time I add a new post.

I have been reading a lot of poetry and came across this book online called "Poetry of Pain" by Linda Martinson. She has fibromylagia and used poetry to express her feelings, finding solace in writing. I ordered the book, it's small, but her words are powerful. It resonated with me because I could relate with all the phases of chronic pain that she discusses. I'm going to copy my favorites. Please remember, you're not alone.

Supermarket Concessions

I am paying for my groceries
at the check stand.
"How ya doing?" he asks.
I look at his eyes, tempted
to startle him with the truth.
But he doesn't really want to know.
So I opt for a nice, neutral,
bland word that means nothing.
A fat word that fills the mouth.
"Fine," I say to his shoulder,
"I'm doin' just fine."

Dark Times

I am awash with pain, my tyranny.
It covers me like seaweed,
clinging, stinking;
the salt is in my wounds.

Searing my muscles with perpetual passion,
pain invades my mind,
my privacy.
Afraid I am drowning
when I so want to live,
I cry.

The Yearning

I used to go to sleep
with my head
on his shoulder.
I'd curl into the
hollows of his body
and he'd read to me
from a book
just boring enough.
Oh, how I miss the
intimacies of love!
The prickly outline
of his beard
undulating in the lamplight
as his lips formed words,
the gentle sound vibration
that tickled my hand
as it lay upon his chest,
the soft distraction
of his cheekbone
waiting for my kiss.
Pain,
Oh Wicked Pain,
must you steal this from me too?
Must you dictate
every aspect of my life?
Let me lay
as lovers lie
without your insidious presence,
my head upon his shoulder
once again.

Acceptance

I get so frustrated when I want to work
and I can't because my body fails me.
I grieve for the energy I used to have,
for the days when I would erupt out of bed,
ready to go.

Lost time.
Lost life.

I miss the spontaneity of good health,
when I could do simple things,
like go for a drive,
or dance,
without having to consider the toll
on my body.
I miss the fun.

Still...
I can't let the past rule my today.

So I will recognize my grief,
roll around in it,
and mourn my loss as I would
the death of a beloved child.
For only then can I get beyond it.

The music is different now. But it's still there.