So, this is the only poem i've ever written about diabetes. It's not my best, but i figured i'd post it...i
Cold as the snow that
Chills the breath and bones;
Winter breath shrieking
Shrill across the stones:
That is the sound that
The paper makes in my hands;
A mocking few could know,
A title that few can hold,
That brings guilt
And anger
Cold as the pain that
Chills the breath and bones.
And even as it cuts me,
The paper knows I bleed
Different blood than those around,
Different blood than what I need.
It insults in its aid,
In its offer to help,
And it helps in its
Own vengeful need,
For I can only bleed
The right blood
When others are watching,
And I cannot help
From stopping
My screaming
Cold as the shriek that
Chills the breath and bones,
And I do not want their thrones;
I do not want their thrones that
Wither in golden misery,
For that—
That I cannot be,
Must be more than golden misery,
And hence these words
That slash the paper to bits:
The paper that knows I bleed
Different blood than what those around
Say I need.
And hence these words that
Chill the breath and bones
With winter-victory,
No more with golden misery.