Each day I cry, you may not know,
One day I'm high, the other I'm low,
But willing to become a star,
The walk of hurt wins; leaving a scar.
As the body falls apart,
I stay alive with the pump of my heart,
Voices speak but I cannot see,
Reality sinking in; and worse it will be.
Fragile touch to minds with death,
Lingering on with my strength; my breath.
I take this walk with few around,
The morning brings false hope, false sound.
Brown eyes may be a beauty,
But looking in the mirror, each days a duty.
Stepping stones while faces shrink,
Dialing each number, each link.
I will be close for family is near,
Disease itself gives each though a new fear.
Crackling down few paths I can now choose,
Although, I help out those with less to lose.
Truth is we all have low points,
Reaching to keep our body working; each joints.
Crumble the pieces,
Iron out the creases.
I may be close to womething unreal,
I may seem happy; next to my bed I'll kneel,
Letting God know this is enough,
Not understanding why my path is rough.
People start to come and go,
They each have sympathy;but don't really know,
I keep my head up-but lupus eats away,
Making it hard to push reality at play.
I'm far from this world, but live in it,
Lightening flashes; rooms dark; I sit,
Crashing into the night,
I lay my head to rest; with dreams of sight.
Copyright © Stacey Behal | Year Posted 2012