'Fit' for Work
I’m free to return
to work,
I can manage to
walk a mile.
I can sit for an
hour without pain.
I can manage to
write a sentence.
I can give answers
to questions,
which are
nevertheless ignored.
I shout out in
protest, please listen…
to no avail, there
is no empathy,
no attempt to
understand qualms.
Awareness of my condition,
none.
Robots in the
guise of assessors
with no means to
grasp abnormal.
Today I am normal,
predictable
But at times wire feels
like it’s drawn
ever tighter
inside my cranium,
until voices
scream out in anger,
coercing me to
strike back with
impropriety and
vulgar gestures,
I have no control,
or escape.
This malady
overwhelms,
it violates dreams
of normality,
my striving for
enlightenment,
a world where no
one grimaces
or looks
frightened when I approach.
The bitter taste
of absurdity is
I will return to an
ambient
where weird is
worrisome, then
the whispers and
stares will follow
and the voices in
my head explode
and pronounce me
unemployable.
