Poetry

Definition of IBS

My struggle,
A little gurgle,
Turns to cramps,
As my face starts to itch,
My legs start to twitch,
They spaz and hurt,
But no matter how hard I knead them,
No matter how much I stretch,
The pain still lingers, A constant.
Then comes the nausea,
The uncomfortable floating head,
Makes me feel my brain further away from my heart,
I worry, I must be dead,
I look down to ensure I am still attached,
Silly woman, everything is intact,
But to my horror, the dry skin creeps over me,
Like the darkness turned Skywalker to Vader,
I run to my roommate,
“MY FACE IS BURNING, MY LEGS AND ARMS TOO!”
She says to my dismay, I see nothing on you,
In essence, the empathy not forced,
Just a sideways glance, and an “Oh! Little bumps, of course!”
I return to my room, thinking to will the pain away,
The only thing that happens, is I keep the tears at bay,
Until slowly as the final two reactions take place,
I must run to the washroom, relieve it all,
Yet no matter how many times I go,
The sense of urgency and cramping marches on.

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