The Poet’s Corner
Welcome to The Poet’s Corner! We would like to give members of our mast cell disorder community an opportunity to share their poems on this site. If you would like to submit a poem, please email it to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Ode to a Mast Cell Flare
Kathy Bell, 2016
My skin, it itches, my eyebrows, they twitch.
My feet burn like they were hit with a switch.
I thirst and I drink and yet I thirst the more.
Puffed up like a toad until I am sore,
I can’t bend my fingers and can’t see my toes,
And my belly it swells and swells-
That’s where all the fluid goes!
My gut, oh my gut did- I mention it swells?
Like a mighty fortress it closes up tight,
On guard for any intruders that might put up a fight.
But the flaw in the system is that food is not my rival.
Food, yes, food is what I need for survival.
Backing up, freezing up, fermenting my fodder.
Eventually it stalls and sputters its way open,
The pain I endure is truly unbearable,
But somehow, lamenting, bear it I do.
My mind is confused, my words have all …gone
What used to be easy is now a great feat.
My thinker won’t think, brain fog they call it,
But when I’m in a flare it’s more like pea soup!
My thoughts, they just go round and round in a loop.
Sometimes it’s so bad, I need a keeper, or two!
Insomnia, that night time fiend,
Pays me a visit each night in my bed,
My body, my mind, they yearn for sleep,
But my blood is filled with that ancient elixir,
I feel ready for a fight or to flee or leap.
So I toss and turn like a Kitchenaid mixer!
I take my meds, but the battle rages on,
My muscles, they spasm from my head to my feet,
I try not to cry, knowing tonight I will not sleep.
Insomnia, and all the other ails I now bid adieu,
For now I must speak of She Who Must Be Obeyed,
Oh yes, you know it is you!
She who is most cruel,
The Queen of Chronic Fatigue.
Like a vampire she drains me,
Just to the point near death.
Then leaves me, gasping for breath.
I am weak to the point of immobility,
Feverish or chilled to the bone, I feel her hostility.
I am loathe to admit it, but I am Her slave.
When she speaks, I must obey.
For if I do not, she will rain down a mast cell Hell
Upon my body this very day.
And yet, as I shiver beneath my covers,
I cry a pox upon her spiteful face!
And so it goes, and if I am good and if I am lucky,
This flare will pass with no horrible sights,
No feeling of doom, no hysteria, no anaphylaxis,
No Epi-pen, no ER, no Grim Reaper
Hopefully not tonight.