Poem: Cronic Pain

It sits where time forgets to pass,
not loud like thunder, but a glass
held under skin—always half-full,
always tipping, always dull.

Morning doesn’t bring relief,
just a change in shape for grief—
a different angle, sharper line,
a quieter way to not feel fine.

It teaches maps the body makes
that no one else can read or trace,
where rest is not a guaranteed door
but something bargained for and more.

And still, there are the in-between:
a laugh that briefly gets between
the ache and you, a warmed-up hand,
a moment pain can’t quite command.

So you keep learning how to stay
inside a shifting, uneven day—
not cured, not fixed, but somehow here,
still building life around what’s near.

Thank-you for reading.

Brenda Marie