Feeling Sorry for Myself

The weight of my problem
presses on my soul -
pound by pound.
My spirit plummets -
inch by inch.

Feeling sorry for myself is so easy.

A restless night;
too hot,
too cold,
too alert . . .

Tossing,
so drowsy . . .
dreaming of my vagabond childhood;
the many places I lay down to sleep.
Moving around, the different places;
always though, a warm wonderful sleep.

My family, my home, a child in a warm safe place.

Then, the image comes to me -
her photo in the newspaper
several months ago;
beautiful,
haunting.

Large wide-eyed innocence,
filled with untold sadness,
and experience beyond her years.

Her scars, a patchwork story of the bomb
that blew her world apart -
it echoes now with me this night.
Alert, I smell the tart, sulfuric, smoky jolt
that threw her life into disarray.

When I first saw the little Iraqi girl
I winced, and turned away,
then willed myself to look again.
Visualize her suffering;
to honor her
and cry for her.

She, a child of God.

Her vision keeps me awake in bed.
She looks directly at me – unwavering – sad, yet not bitter.
The scars on her face would be hideous on a less beautiful child;
half of it was blown off, and resewn.
Her battered body and haunting eyes
stand in front of rubble,
her family gone.

I can taste the sweet sickness brought by healing sores,
like my own they are uninvited, undeserved.
Still, she breathes with her quilted chest, and so can I.

She is brave - so am I.

I pray that she is safe tonight.
I find little reason to feel sorry for myself.





a link to her picture, but please be warned can be a shocking photo, rated 18+

ID: 1481681   (Rated: 18+) My little Iraqi Girl  She inspired me during cancer treatment; war image, please note the rating. by NOVAcatmando

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Note:  this poem is part of a collection, to read more please see:

"the C-word"  13+: emotional, poignant, funny poems written about my experiences having cancer