Welcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and twenty-fourth poem in this series. This week’s piece is by Joanne Hayle.
You Can’t Buy Me, O.C.D.
Unavailable on the high street
Or the finest of boutiques
O.C.D. shares my body
It’s not a perfect fit
It chooses to adorn me
Whatever my price tag or tastes
I lather soap to fend off fears
Hands and arms are dusted, dusty
One day I was asked if I’d been burned
It was twenty-four degrees C,
My arms aired and seen
Caused surprise or was it chagrin?
Please do not feel sorry for me
I am getting stronger, wiser
The negative morphs into a photo
And I can see me peeking brave
The must have clothes
Haircut and age defying cream
Become a folly for others
Me? I strive to repurchase me
If you feel that you bum’s too big
That hair dye is to be liberally applied
If you wish for surgery and chemical peels
I cannot judge, you’re free to decide
I say though, when fashions have passed
When wrinkles have graced your face
True beauty that can’t be bought
Is truth wrestled from O.C.D’s grasp.
I asked Joanne what prompted this piece and she said…
Thankfully my OCD/PTSD has become a lot better lately but this poem represents how these illnesses do not discriminate, but then, which illness does? Continue reading