Aaah! "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. No time to say hello, goodbye, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"
I'm in the mood for a poem (first draft so forgive me-the title is a pun intended)
A Work In Progress
My body of work
Will be contained in books
Written and read
By me.
Who was she?
A poet.
A writer.
A lover.
A mother?
Definitely a fighter.
The collection of "me"
Will not be perfect.
Like my fingers and joints
It will have cracks
Broken edges
Curved lines
And imperfections.
My legacy
Will hurt
And it will heal
It will make you feel
With all your senses
And lift you off
Your knees
Humbly.
My body of work
has been left inside
The hearts and minds
Of America's
Disadvantaged youth
And memories of me
Are found inside the walls
Of my grandfather's school
My body will fail me
My body has failed me
But my work will not
My brittle bones
Will be remembered
By the few who
Chose to listen
To the answer to
What is scleroderma?
What is Lupus?
How are you feeling?
Why aren't you dealing?
No trophies or trinkets
To commemorate
Me
I educate
And advocate
In the name of
Finding a cure
Or at least consolation
Because I know
That one day
My body will fail me
But my work should not.