Friday, 11 January 2013

Past Poetry Circa 1994

     My mother came home from work this evening, and after heating up left overs and chatting about our day she sat down to check her email. She's reminded that earlier today, in the tangle of cobwebs in the depths of  internets past, she somehow came across a poem. A poem I had written and long forgotten about. I hardly remember writing it. I was fourteen years old, desperate to live like all the rest of my friends and so bitter and angry whenever I had to succumb to my illness. It's really quite remarkable that my mother somehow found the poem after over fifteen years. It's also really well written, for a fourteen year old girl. But what the really amazing thing is, that at thirty, I still feel every line and every word.
     Every single day.

    by Jane Spring      1994

My illness doesn’t own me
It never tells me what to do
It screams at me and pulls me down – but I know this much is true
My illness doesn’t make me smile, it doesn’t make me love
It doesn’t dictate my dreams at night or my beliefs in up above
My illness grows more every day and spreads from limb to limb
It may dim the redness of my cheeks, but not my light within
It can take my body, but I’ remain forever whole
Because an illness can never defeat you if you don’t let it take your soul

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