by Bethany Yagci
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't have to rely
On my poor spirit weak as it is coming up
Surprisingly stronger than all else.
I would rely on my body, that washed up shell
That is supposedly me which was
Once my confidante now become my betrayer.
My mind
which is so unreliable
would direct me.
My heart
which cannot help me
would guide me.
My will
which is rendered incapable
would feign strength and...
I would think myself well.
That's the illusion;
This, the reality.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't be so sensitive
That I feel so deeply,
care so much,
love in spite of pain.
What glorious scope,
what lottery,
unrestrained & ambitious,
which deems me worthy
to know the pains of the body,
the heart, and the mind
all at once.
As if I should know
what to do with this
new-found knowledge
or how to assuage them;
whether to embrace them
or thrust them through.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't know
the inexpressible value of
a reassuring voice in the night,
a gentle heartfelt hug,
a soft touch, whisper, or breeze.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't understand
that limitations
are both a blessing
and a curse
just as freedom is.
Rest is an illusion
if not spiritually attained.
Peace is found
in the absence of sensory stimuli
and protection from offenses,
not in a handshake
or meeting of political minds.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't be any more wise
or strong
or faithful
or true.
I might have more money
or more friends
but much less of reality
which is really what life is.
If I weren't ill...
I WOULDN'T BE WELL
I AM WELL
BECAUSE I AM ILL
NOT IN SPITE OF IT.
How many healthy people do you know who are
REALLY WELL?
I rest my case.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't have to rely
On my poor spirit weak as it is coming up
Surprisingly stronger than all else.
I would rely on my body, that washed up shell
That is supposedly me which was
Once my confidante now become my betrayer.
My mind
which is so unreliable
would direct me.
My heart
which cannot help me
would guide me.
My will
which is rendered incapable
would feign strength and...
I would think myself well.
That's the illusion;
This, the reality.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't be so sensitive
That I feel so deeply,
care so much,
love in spite of pain.
What glorious scope,
what lottery,
unrestrained & ambitious,
which deems me worthy
to know the pains of the body,
the heart, and the mind
all at once.
As if I should know
what to do with this
new-found knowledge
or how to assuage them;
whether to embrace them
or thrust them through.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't know
the inexpressible value of
a reassuring voice in the night,
a gentle heartfelt hug,
a soft touch, whisper, or breeze.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't understand
that limitations
are both a blessing
and a curse
just as freedom is.
Rest is an illusion
if not spiritually attained.
Peace is found
in the absence of sensory stimuli
and protection from offenses,
not in a handshake
or meeting of political minds.
If I weren't ill...
I wouldn't be any more wise
or strong
or faithful
or true.
I might have more money
or more friends
but much less of reality
which is really what life is.
If I weren't ill...
I WOULDN'T BE WELL
I AM WELL
BECAUSE I AM ILL
NOT IN SPITE OF IT.
How many healthy people do you know who are
REALLY WELL?
I rest my case.
