21 November 2013
There must be a magical misfit place,
Where no one has to hide the pain.
Where perfume smells like biofreeze,
And someone washes my hair for me.
A town where no one complains,
Because everyone here hurts the same.
With a smile and sympathetic nod,
No one notices all that we forgot.
No one cares what we can’t do,
Or how we leave a mess or two.
Where all zippers could be left down,
That would be my kind of town.
Welcome to Rheumatoid Arthritis.
City where we leave the lights on,
the floors are always sticky
and the flies are always open.