Still working on this too
You rush to check on grandma,
To make sure she’s okay.
They say don’t stress her out,
She’s too delicate to say.
You clinch your chest,
From the unbearable pain,
You ask to sit down,
You say not today,
But with your short life there’s no way you’re sick!
You’re faking it they say,
It’s probably just a bug, anyway.
I can’t help, but wonder and maybe be envious,
her long life deserves to be handled,
more delicately than my short presence?
Because I haven’t had the years to age,
I’m left feeling anxious,
Not just because I feel more alone,
But I’m left feeling like a fake,
Trying to live an ordinary existence,
They don’t know that my smile I forged,
That my tumble I said was me being clumsy,
Is just the faint feeling I feel consistently,
the yawning wasn’t from a late night,
that no matter how much I sleep it could never be enough.
The grabbing at my chest isn’t heart burn,
But an irregular heart-beat that was above average for no cause.
That I sit because the blood pulling in my legs feels like needles
not because I am lazy,
for I’m burdened with an illness that my youthful skin hides,
from the embodiment of an uneducated mind.