Poetry competition CLOSED 13th June 2013 3:09am
WINNER
Page_Writer (Mad Girl)
Page_Writer (Mad Girl)
RUNNER-UP:
MadameLavender
Page:
INVISIBLE CHRONIC ILLNESS
Anonymous
Poetry Contest Description
WRITE ABOUT INVISIBLE CHRONIC ILLNESS / YOUR OWN EXPERIENCE OR....
Write up to 3 poems
new or old
on the subject of invisible chronic illness
can be your experience or that of a friend
or a relative or research
can be any genre of poetry
Note: This may not be the complete list of instructions.
Will add more should I have forgotten any.
--------------------------------------------------------------
People with some kinds of invisible disabilities, such as chronic pain or some kind of sleep disorder, are often accused of faking or imagining their disabilities. These symptoms can occur due to chronic illness, chronic pain, injury, birth disorders, etc. and are not always obvious to the onlooker.
Invisible Disabilities are certain kinds of disabilities that are not immediately apparent to others. It is estimated that 10% of people in the U.S. have a medical condition which could be considered a type of invisible disability.
Nearly one in two people in the U.S. has a chronic medical condition of one kind or another, but most of these people are not considered to be disabled, as their medical conditions do not impair their normal everyday activities. These people do not use an assistive device and most look and act perfectly healthy.
According to the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 (ADA) an individual with a disability is a person who: Has a physical or mental impairment that substantially limits one or more major life activities; has a record of such an impairment; or is regarded as having such an impairment.
http://www.disabled-world.com/disability/types/invisible/
http://www.getwellhealth.com/invisible-illnesses-list-help-wanted/
new or old
on the subject of invisible chronic illness
can be your experience or that of a friend
or a relative or research
can be any genre of poetry
Note: This may not be the complete list of instructions.
Will add more should I have forgotten any.
--------------------------------------------------------------
People with some kinds of invisible disabilities, such as chronic pain or some kind of sleep disorder, are often accused of faking or imagining their disabilities. These symptoms can occur due to chronic illness, chronic pain, injury, birth disorders, etc. and are not always obvious to the onlooker.
Invisible Disabilities are certain kinds of disabilities that are not immediately apparent to others. It is estimated that 10% of people in the U.S. have a medical condition which could be considered a type of invisible disability.
Nearly one in two people in the U.S. has a chronic medical condition of one kind or another, but most of these people are not considered to be disabled, as their medical conditions do not impair their normal everyday activities. These people do not use an assistive device and most look and act perfectly healthy.
According to the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 (ADA) an individual with a disability is a person who: Has a physical or mental impairment that substantially limits one or more major life activities; has a record of such an impairment; or is regarded as having such an impairment.
http://www.disabled-world.com/disability/types/invisible/
http://www.getwellhealth.com/invisible-illnesses-list-help-wanted/
Anonymous
This is a wonderful topic, Kitty. One that does need more exposure, thank you.
All In My Head
------------
It's never clear, even hard
for those who see me daily
to see any illness with my brain
maybe because I'm naturally crazy
covering the fact that it's not the smoke
I get stoned and remember more
mostly though, I forget
I can watch the same film, time and again
wait on the ending like I don't know it
Everything has to come with routine
or I'll lose track of what's next, blow it
start fires in the kitchen forgetting I'm cooking
take a taxi home because I forget what's been said
"I'll be back in ten, just wait there"
people always saying hello
while I'm trying to decide if they're someone I know
I hear all the time
"you'd never know it"
I do though and it's horrible
the date is always lost, even the year
sometimes I look fine
but it's always unclear
a faulty temporal lobe can cause real misery
and my medical report reads
"Motor vehicle accident, acquired brain injury"
All In My Head
------------
It's never clear, even hard
for those who see me daily
to see any illness with my brain
maybe because I'm naturally crazy
covering the fact that it's not the smoke
I get stoned and remember more
mostly though, I forget
I can watch the same film, time and again
wait on the ending like I don't know it
Everything has to come with routine
or I'll lose track of what's next, blow it
start fires in the kitchen forgetting I'm cooking
take a taxi home because I forget what's been said
"I'll be back in ten, just wait there"
people always saying hello
while I'm trying to decide if they're someone I know
I hear all the time
"you'd never know it"
I do though and it's horrible
the date is always lost, even the year
sometimes I look fine
but it's always unclear
a faulty temporal lobe can cause real misery
and my medical report reads
"Motor vehicle accident, acquired brain injury"
Anonymous
Miki - thank you for starting this competition with the poem that was written in a way that people can identify.
Miki
Thank you for starting off the competition
and for your support.
Kitty
Miki
Thank you for starting off the competition
and for your support.
Kitty
Anonymous
Thank you, Kitty. My pleasure.
Anonymous
A Father to My Mother
At birth I was yellow
The nurses called me
The Neon Crayon
And we were both sick for a year
I was raised in an apartment,
Raised in tattoo parties
Hearing those needles buzz
While you all were buzzed
As I probably was
When you’d give me
Bud in my sippy-cup
So I could sleep and not wake up
Besides his and your loud voices
I remember all the bumps
All the fights no child should see,
Am I right?
But in my sight they were there
And when you parents split
I colored the walls and pulled my hair,
I only had two eyelashes that cared
And two bald spots because I was scared
Then came when you chose a guy
And his drug, and I was like nothing,
Maybe a rug, or was I a bug?
Did you think that of me?
Years ago still I can feel
I haven’t yet been freed
From when you squashed me,
I never thought the same hand
That cradled me as a parent
Would ball up as a fist
And strike me so violent.
Let’s go, mom,
Let’s talk about today
About your son who smokes packs away
And panics over you, everyday
Hovering over you while you sleep
Under burn holes and sadness
Smelling cheap shit whenever
You talk and watching you
Hold on to walls as you walk,
Standing half naked in your room
Dancing to grandpa’s old CD’s crying,
Constantly reminded in your face
The time you drank yourself away
Lying on the stairs dying
Mom, are you my child?
Are you stuck as a teen
Drinking and drugging going wild?
I’m like a father to my mother,
A worrier, a warrior of worry
I hope you see what you've done to me.
At birth I was yellow
The nurses called me
The Neon Crayon
And we were both sick for a year
I was raised in an apartment,
Raised in tattoo parties
Hearing those needles buzz
While you all were buzzed
As I probably was
When you’d give me
Bud in my sippy-cup
So I could sleep and not wake up
Besides his and your loud voices
I remember all the bumps
All the fights no child should see,
Am I right?
But in my sight they were there
And when you parents split
I colored the walls and pulled my hair,
I only had two eyelashes that cared
And two bald spots because I was scared
Then came when you chose a guy
And his drug, and I was like nothing,
Maybe a rug, or was I a bug?
Did you think that of me?
Years ago still I can feel
I haven’t yet been freed
From when you squashed me,
I never thought the same hand
That cradled me as a parent
Would ball up as a fist
And strike me so violent.
Let’s go, mom,
Let’s talk about today
About your son who smokes packs away
And panics over you, everyday
Hovering over you while you sleep
Under burn holes and sadness
Smelling cheap shit whenever
You talk and watching you
Hold on to walls as you walk,
Standing half naked in your room
Dancing to grandpa’s old CD’s crying,
Constantly reminded in your face
The time you drank yourself away
Lying on the stairs dying
Mom, are you my child?
Are you stuck as a teen
Drinking and drugging going wild?
I’m like a father to my mother,
A worrier, a warrior of worry
I hope you see what you've done to me.
Anonymous
Matt - thank you for that poem...
Kitty
Kitty
Anonymous
You're absolutely welcome. It's the newest one on my profile if you wish to critique it there :)
Not A Disability
I do not have a disability.
I am not disabled.
So I feel when I collect my money from the state every beginning of the month.
When there are people with bum legs.
And no arms.
People with messed up hands, feet and other limbs.
If I say I collect disability.
At the age of nineteen.
People will look at me with that confused expression.
That glazed over look in their eyes.
The question bubbling up from their throat, and burning a hole through their tongue.
"Why?"
Because I am depressed.
Because I am paranoid.
Because I am afraid of people and being social.
Because I have panic attacks.
Because I cut myself.
Because I wanted to die.
"That's a not a disability, you're just taking money from the state so you don't have to work."
I can't work in place.
With people.
And rules.
And regulations.
My mind wanders and I look for places to hide.
That's why I dropped out of school.
And for the longest time stayed inside of a hotel room and cried.
What people don't know is that I do work.
I write.
But that's not a job.
Not until you get published.
And what if you don't?
What if you don't get published?
What do you fall back on?
It's always a possibility hanging above my head.
If I don't get published.
And don't make a name.
Than I am just taking money from the state.
And so I write about sadness.
And dreams.
And fictions.
Girls who are hopeless in love with Love.
And girls who would rather hide from ever being tricked again.
Fantasy stories of a heroine from another world.
And haunted houses with vengeful ghosts waiting to be heard.
These character haunt me and their stories are as real as my own.
But the depression comes over me.
And everything I write is sad.
And dark.
And mournful.
That I might as well bury the ink pen in the ground.
And burn the pages in the night.
Because the characters lives cannot be written if my mind is not right.
And I do not live in the outside world.
And see things like other people do.
I hide from being social.
And get scared too easily.
That when it comes to writing I don't know how.
My imagination gets stifled and I feel like I'm choking on a toxic poison.
Infecting my heart & soul.
But I am disabled.
Because it cannot be seen.
The scared girl, rocking back and forth among the books in Wal-Mart because I cannot find my mother, boyfriend and baby. Because they have left me and as many times as I pace back and forth around the store. I cannot seem to find them. And so I curl up the ground, my heart beating hard in my chest, and tears on the brink of being shed.
But I am not disabled.
When all I want to do is lie in bed. And when the razors ginger marks don't hurt, but the accidental paper cut does.
I am not disabled.
Because a character on a TV show is alone, I tune into his sadness and now I am alone as well. Standing under a permanent rain cloud while my family awaits me in the sun that I can never seem to find.
I am not disabled.
I am not disabled.
Just collecting money from the state.
Don't need medication.
Don't need therapy.
Don't need my therapy pet.
Take it all away.
Just leave me.
I am not disabled.
Just fine, numb, dead & cold.
But those are just words.
Feelings inside of my brain.
Because the brain cannot be sick.
And a person's mental state cannot be corrupt.
Ask my high school?
They'll tell you all about it.
How I was forced to drop out.
Because I left, skipped & ditched.
Because I told them I was social phobic.
That's not real.
Stop self-diagnosing yourself.
And when I get a real diagnosis, I'm lying through my teeth.
Just too lazy to work.
And want to collect money from the state.
Because I am not disabled.
Right?
I do not have a disability.
I am not disabled.
So I feel when I collect my money from the state every beginning of the month.
When there are people with bum legs.
And no arms.
People with messed up hands, feet and other limbs.
If I say I collect disability.
At the age of nineteen.
People will look at me with that confused expression.
That glazed over look in their eyes.
The question bubbling up from their throat, and burning a hole through their tongue.
"Why?"
Because I am depressed.
Because I am paranoid.
Because I am afraid of people and being social.
Because I have panic attacks.
Because I cut myself.
Because I wanted to die.
"That's a not a disability, you're just taking money from the state so you don't have to work."
I can't work in place.
With people.
And rules.
And regulations.
My mind wanders and I look for places to hide.
That's why I dropped out of school.
And for the longest time stayed inside of a hotel room and cried.
What people don't know is that I do work.
I write.
But that's not a job.
Not until you get published.
And what if you don't?
What if you don't get published?
What do you fall back on?
It's always a possibility hanging above my head.
If I don't get published.
And don't make a name.
Than I am just taking money from the state.
And so I write about sadness.
And dreams.
And fictions.
Girls who are hopeless in love with Love.
And girls who would rather hide from ever being tricked again.
Fantasy stories of a heroine from another world.
And haunted houses with vengeful ghosts waiting to be heard.
These character haunt me and their stories are as real as my own.
But the depression comes over me.
And everything I write is sad.
And dark.
And mournful.
That I might as well bury the ink pen in the ground.
And burn the pages in the night.
Because the characters lives cannot be written if my mind is not right.
And I do not live in the outside world.
And see things like other people do.
I hide from being social.
And get scared too easily.
That when it comes to writing I don't know how.
My imagination gets stifled and I feel like I'm choking on a toxic poison.
Infecting my heart & soul.
But I am disabled.
Because it cannot be seen.
The scared girl, rocking back and forth among the books in Wal-Mart because I cannot find my mother, boyfriend and baby. Because they have left me and as many times as I pace back and forth around the store. I cannot seem to find them. And so I curl up the ground, my heart beating hard in my chest, and tears on the brink of being shed.
But I am not disabled.
When all I want to do is lie in bed. And when the razors ginger marks don't hurt, but the accidental paper cut does.
I am not disabled.
Because a character on a TV show is alone, I tune into his sadness and now I am alone as well. Standing under a permanent rain cloud while my family awaits me in the sun that I can never seem to find.
I am not disabled.
I am not disabled.
Just collecting money from the state.
Don't need medication.
Don't need therapy.
Don't need my therapy pet.
Take it all away.
Just leave me.
I am not disabled.
Just fine, numb, dead & cold.
But those are just words.
Feelings inside of my brain.
Because the brain cannot be sick.
And a person's mental state cannot be corrupt.
Ask my high school?
They'll tell you all about it.
How I was forced to drop out.
Because I left, skipped & ditched.
Because I told them I was social phobic.
That's not real.
Stop self-diagnosing yourself.
And when I get a real diagnosis, I'm lying through my teeth.
Just too lazy to work.
And want to collect money from the state.
Because I am not disabled.
Right?
Going away
It started with a headache
that made me cry
then seizures came
and no one knew why
I forget where I am
and whats happening
then the me appears again
and I am fine again
mommy said" this better not be to get out of cleaning"
at that point I wanted to scream
What was happening to me?
After it happened again
to the hospital we went
millions of things
and tons of machines
found nothing wrong with me
but they witness what was happening
Conversion disorder
they said I had
I didn't know what it was
but they said I had it because
of stress, anxiety and other stuff
they told me to see a physiologist
but I had no clue why
there explanation didn't make sense
until now
When my mind is stressed
my body and head freaks out
and it goes far away
and I have a seizure
again
they said their really isn't anything wrong with me
at least nothing they can see
It started with a headache
that made me cry
then seizures came
and no one knew why
I forget where I am
and whats happening
then the me appears again
and I am fine again
mommy said" this better not be to get out of cleaning"
at that point I wanted to scream
What was happening to me?
After it happened again
to the hospital we went
millions of things
and tons of machines
found nothing wrong with me
but they witness what was happening
Conversion disorder
they said I had
I didn't know what it was
but they said I had it because
of stress, anxiety and other stuff
they told me to see a physiologist
but I had no clue why
there explanation didn't make sense
until now
When my mind is stressed
my body and head freaks out
and it goes far away
and I have a seizure
again
they said their really isn't anything wrong with me
at least nothing they can see
Anonymous
These poems are so good. Thank you for sharing.
Kitty
Kitty
Prison Of Flesh
Locked away in a prison of flesh
He faces life
A life,
If one could call it that
of solitary confinement
He'll never know himself
He'll never know a friend
He'll never enjoy a freedom
And no matter where he goes
He will never be able to pass through those intangible bars
The bars that keep him a prisoner in his cell
In his cells
Locked away in a prison of flesh
He faces life
A life,
If one could call it that
of solitary confinement
He'll never know himself
He'll never know a friend
He'll never enjoy a freedom
And no matter where he goes
He will never be able to pass through those intangible bars
The bars that keep him a prisoner in his cell
In his cells
Anonymous
Thank you Pierre for your submission.
Kitty
Kitty
Anonymous
Crohn's (for my sister, Anita)
The invisible disease
with no known cause or cure
Symptoms too embarrassing to talk about:
Gas, cramps, an urgent need to shit
Bleeding when you do
Fissures torn, fistulas tunnelling
from one loop of gut to another
or connecting to your bladder, vag or skin
Always tired when it flares
I mean, how do you talk about shit like that
in everyday conversation?
So no one knows it's there
and since you look like anyone else
they assume it's in your head
or maybe you just don't eat right
But you know. Even at home
Pounding on the bathroom door,
screaming to be let in
and sometimes it's too late
when they finally do
Every time you walk out one door
and into another; eyes scan to find the can
and the shortest route to it
Begging in shops for the staff washroom
and having them turn you away
The relief when it's calm
and you have a normal day
is intense, but never trusted
You know it's still there
Could flare up any time
But, hey..
Shit happens.
--------------------------------------
My baby sister Anita died - not from the disease itself, but
because some combination of the cocktail of drugs she had to
take caused a heart attack in a body already too weak and too
tired after eight years of fighting.
The invisible disease
with no known cause or cure
Symptoms too embarrassing to talk about:
Gas, cramps, an urgent need to shit
Bleeding when you do
Fissures torn, fistulas tunnelling
from one loop of gut to another
or connecting to your bladder, vag or skin
Always tired when it flares
I mean, how do you talk about shit like that
in everyday conversation?
So no one knows it's there
and since you look like anyone else
they assume it's in your head
or maybe you just don't eat right
But you know. Even at home
Pounding on the bathroom door,
screaming to be let in
and sometimes it's too late
when they finally do
Every time you walk out one door
and into another; eyes scan to find the can
and the shortest route to it
Begging in shops for the staff washroom
and having them turn you away
The relief when it's calm
and you have a normal day
is intense, but never trusted
You know it's still there
Could flare up any time
But, hey..
Shit happens.
--------------------------------------
My baby sister Anita died - not from the disease itself, but
because some combination of the cocktail of drugs she had to
take caused a heart attack in a body already too weak and too
tired after eight years of fighting.
Anonymous
COMPETITION:
INVISIBLE CHRONIC ILLNESS
WINNER: Paige Rider
RUNNER-UP: MadameLavender and mikimoondancer
ALL the poems submitted were winners.
So this was like judging the Olympics.
I thank each person for supporting the
competition with their excellent submissions,
With admiration for all
Kitty
INVISIBLE CHRONIC ILLNESS
WINNER: Paige Rider
RUNNER-UP: MadameLavender and mikimoondancer
ALL the poems submitted were winners.
So this was like judging the Olympics.
I thank each person for supporting the
competition with their excellent submissions,
With admiration for all
Kitty
