SCLERODERMA
I curse that you gave me a disease
that no one ever heard of,
and I have to explain it to
the nth degree,
when all I want to do,
is yell “shit.”
Why did you have to use your imagination?
I suppose in answer to my taunts
that you had no sense of humour.
Supercilious poor sport,
rerouting me,
putting me on another track,
a slow track.
And when I complain,
you thumb your nose, and
only say, “use your head.
You have a mind and a darn
good one at that… forget
about your feet.
There are no reasons to be won
on your feet.”
I rip back my anger,
as ever on the surface these days,
interspersed with self pity.
Easy for you to say, you… you
sanctimonious old God.
Heet you own advice.
But even in anger, laced with despair,
I reach out for your invisible hand.
Walk with me, make my steps sure.
Get me back on track,
the slow track.