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Determining The Dead

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“What’s happened has happened
What’s coming is already on its way
With a role for me to play

I don’t understand
I’ll never understand
But I’ll try to understand
There’s nothing else I can do.” F A

I sit. Waiting. In a line of dead people and they don’t even know it.
Bureau of Disability Determination Services.
I am alone.
Filling out forty + pages of my life like I’m a Brochure for Medicare.
It’s painful.
Not the time I waste, but the history of my Health (or lack there of) spread open on Government Pages stained with out of time.

I’m tired.
Why.
I have to prove that I have been
Sick from in In utero.

I wish I could just burn my clothes and reveal the surgical scars that cover my broken down body.

I can tell you stories of unspeakable suffering, but what will that do?
Change minds of people who have never endured physical misery?

I can cut my teeth on the rhetoric of
my affliction, never asking for a cure, just some peace, comfort from solace arms.

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I know. It will never be.
I will never be.
My health consumes my external world and my time is ignored infinitely.


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