Is It Real?

The Painful Truth

I'm sick of the stares and glares from those who have no idea what it's like. They judge, accuse, refuse to believe, that there is nothing fake, about pain. They don't lay awake, endlessly prostrate, muscles tight, tendons knitted into purls of pain. They are not victim to their bones - bones that concertina into awkward angles - impossible angles. Their flesh is not strangled, red and hot - their faces don't wear a grimace, a gurn, or an upside-down grin - nor a trace of sweat on the skin.

Most won't hear the world close for the night, or suffer the plight of hearing it chirrup, back into life - with zero sleep in-between. They don't lay awake wondering what the next day will bring. But then, neither do I - because I know...

Pain is real and un-renting - cruel and exhausting. Pain steals joy and kills it - a killjoy of the highest calibre. It gnaws away hope, shredding it like pulled pork. It is tasteless in its choice of flesh. Wealthy or impoverished - it cares not. It forgets not, what it promised the day before. Its aim is good, its memory better.

It rips relationships, until there is nothing left to stitch back together. The once love-able, becomes a rag, unloved and shabby. As the lover cares, their knees despair and their hearts revolt. Their vows, a bitter truth, they live by.

So hey...don't stare and glare, for there is no gain in pain. But if I could...I would not trade my reality for yours, because I'd rather live with pain, than be crippled with spite.