This poet held denial in her trembling hands as the doctor said
she have to be under for the rest of her life.
That what she was giving me was not a cure but a clutch.
I felt reluctant to accept. I can break under the side effects.
Loose myself with each and every one of them.
And clutches can be broken just as easily as many pencils. Which
was my existing dosage The one thing that do help but just
isnt enough any more.
But the symptoms at the moment are too great and
I cant ignore the signs anymore. Even if I write it all down.
Store them in a box on the back shelf, and bottle it away. I
still would not be cured, like I used to be.
The words I write are still going to be there. Unreadable to most
due to the shaking from fingers that refuse to sit still and the elaborate
mind of an introvert.
Tremors versus Anxiety.
How was we supposed to know there was something wrong?