Fibromyalgia. It's certainly a swear word in my book.
The Awkward Bit
As some of you may know, I have suffered for quite a long time with a condition call Fibromyalgia. There it is, on the left hand side of the screen, trying to explain itself like the turdface it is. But basically the majority of research on the subject has only really started making solid conclusions in the past few years which means that you occassionally get morons who say "That's just a generic term doctors use for unexplained muscle pain." or the lovely sorts who think you're blowing it out of proportion or making it up.
So this poem was born out of frustration, not at the people who don't understand but want to learn more about it, but the people who think that using google makes them an expert on any subject.
Actually I occasionally write a blog about the subject which you can find at http://Fibromyzombies.wordpress.com
The F Word (Can You Spell Fibromyalgia)
Yes, it's one of those new "made up" diseases,
See, the more I blurt out, the more it increases,
The chance I'll be able to keep things on track,
And not tear your throat out when the voice yells "Attack!"
No, it's not just that I can't be bothered to get out of bed,
It toys with your muscles, sticks it's fingers in your head,
And this, for me, is intensely frustrating,
And I've found the best way to keep on is creating
Lyrics, to spew forth the wild and absurd,
Globules of brain filth, poetic lemon curd
that clogs my synapses, stops brain pulses moving,
To get on with my life and not just stand there grooving
To sounds in my head and rhythms on the street
while my body finds it hard to even move my feet.
'Cause with Fibromyalgia comes chronic fatigue
And sometimes movement itself is out of my league.
'Cause if my mind is too full of emotional goo,
It forgets that it's there to control my limbs too.
So I pour out the words to combat limb deadness,
Spread brain marmalade that is more shred than shredless,
But it steals shit it doesn't need like some klepto crap fanatic,
And I clear out the dead stuff like Sherlock Holmes's brain attic,
And find that I've lost something vital. Like Scrabble.
Or the ability to speak without starting to babble.
But if I don't then things slow like those dreams where you run,
from a vast hoard of zombies or a kid with a gun
And no matter how hard you push, the world slows
And the distance between you and escape grows and grows.
But I'm not asleep, and my grip on reality
Is nothing but fingernail marks on my sanity.
And my only option is to sleep my through
And pray that if I wake I can move when I do.
So yes, I talk a lot of gubbins and my mind is on the roof,
But my previous experience is more than enough proof
That the more brain cheddar, edam, Gruyère,
Stilton, blue monday, brie, Camembert,
I can vent at you, the more I can function.
So if you don't enjoy this cheesy brain luncheon,
then me and my “invented ailment” bid you adue!
Oh had I mentioned it's immensely painful too?
Like a slow crackling fire lit under the skin,
Or thousands of miniature bites from within?
I suppose you could call it Fibromyzombies,
Makes you slow and feels like the undead are getting their nommies,
But no, you're right, it's a made-up disease,
I only mention for attention, to get people to please
my need to feel freakish, like I'm causing a fuss.
Oh, on your way home, if you encounter a bus,
Feel free to step in front of it as it pulls away.
Then maybe I'll bump in to you at the doctor's someday,
And dude, don't worry, cause I've completely got your back,
When someone smirks when you've left and