Poem: A Poem About Chronic Pain

In silent hours when others sleep,
It coils within me, dark and deep.
No wound to bind, no bruise to see,
Yet every breath a mutiny.

It’s not the scream of sudden flame,
But slow erosion, just the same—
A ghost that gnaws behind the eyes,
And in the spine’s soft, aching cries.

I wear a smile, rehearsed and neat,
While fire curls through hands and feet.
“Still hurting?” Yes, but I just nod—
A weary shrug, a silent fraud.

The world moves fast; I move through haze,
Measured in spoons, not hours or days.
Each task a hill, each step a cost,
Each moment gained from something lost.

No cure, no switch, no clean escape,
Just shifts in weight, in form and shape.
A war of whispers, quiet, and long,
That teaches weakness can be strong.

So if you ask what pain has taught,
It’s this: that battles aren’t all fought
With swords or scars that eyes can trace—
But in the soul, and deep in grace.