From Place of Rest to Torture Table

Torture Bed

Horizontally laying
Pins and needles
Repeated stabbing
Squirming avoidance
Fist, the catalyst
Hovering between
Firm mattress
Spastic back
A touch
Not enough
Digging fingers
Inward pushing
Submission achieved
Back to stretching;
Daily existence.

There’s movement in here

This is a poem that gets a little gritty. It is a poem that challenges some people’s view that unless you are normal there isn’t much you can do. Those are the ignorant people; if blind people can get jobs than why can’t those like me do things that they like. Oh, I know; having a hobby like playing the guitar or drawing and having a job are two different things. But are they really? The only difference I see is with one you get paid and with the other….well, you don’t.

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