I've read others' poetry on this forum in the past. Having had a rather frustrating day (trying to get medical leave), I wrote the following. Many of you can possibly relate to it, so I thought I'd post it.

...but you look so good!

Youre looking so well, she says.
How have your been feeling? she adds (with false concern?)
Im great, I quip, knowing that very few really want the truth.
Youre looking good, she chirps, and continues on her way.

Looking good equals health. What truth lies in this statement.
Yet my outside and inside are at odds with one another. One feeling;
the other living a pretense, a lie. Just smile and say, Im fine, to a
sundry of inquiries.

If only. If only you could see behind my lie. Would the truth scare you
as much as it does me?
If only. If only you could understand my reality:
~searching memory for symbols that are no longer easily
accessible
~losing fine motor skills in ones fingers while trying to put a
fork to the mouth with trembling hands
~wondering why the floor is slanted
~terrorized traveling by car
~ducking or startling when the eye sees the unseen
~heat intolerant
~hungry for air
~the need for railings
~fatigue that has no end to its need
~weak appendages
~departing from a vehicle with effort
~loss of function
~needles which deliver pain
~the dark abyss of depression
~flexibility replaced by rigidity
And there is more, but what does it matter? It is my reality, not yours.

Looking fine on the outside; slowly dying on the inside.
If only they knew.

You look good, I say to the image in the mirror. Ive taught myself
to believe, too.
My mask rarely comes off.