this is my fourth time.
making the appointments, counting the pills, tracking the benefits and services. copying the documents. talking to the doctors who insist on talking down to me… a slow death march
it doesn’t get any easier.
I am sad and tired
a little angry
I am grateful that I am strong and stubborn and will never surrender.. to the sadness, the hopelessness
Anger grabs me and pulls me out of fear’s arms
hurling curses at the sadness
screaming at me to get up. reminding me who and what I am
“fuck the dumbshit”
“You are the wrong mutha fucka to fuck with”
BITCH GET UP!! they dont know.
fear and hopelessness cringe and recede
leaving pity and sadness unprotected
I wish a mutha fuck would? I am not the one
you gonna make me loose my mind up in this dancery
the words become…
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