My socks don’t line-up,
My belt never sits in the middle of my trousers,
My fly doesn’t line-up with my belly button.
My left arm is used for dexterity,
My right arm is stronger,
I brush my teeth with my right hand,
I carry bags with my left,
I write notes with my imperfect scrawl,
Smearing the page and my hand,
I write over and over each letter,
It is perfect.
When I put my notes away,
I put them into my bag,
Carefully chosen for it’s neat and tidy pockets,
And place my pad and pen away,
Pen tip facing right,
I check all the zips until it feels tight,
I undo it and do it again,
Just to be sure.
Sometimes people notice, so, I act shifty, this is a dirty habit now,
“What’s the matter with you?
Oh, I like things tidy, I’m a clean freak.”
But they aren’t,
They don’t get waves of panic if they don’t have a certain pen,
Get a speck of dirt on a clean top and get submerged in waves of dizziness,
I spend my life exhausted making sure right angles line-up,
DVD players and TV units, making sure they are symmetrical,
Even when the tape measure says I’m wrong and the placement is right,
It doesn’t feel right.
The worst is a circular object like a lamp, it’s all guess work and that takes longer,
And my chest knots, breathing stunted and neck creaking.
These thoughts aren’t a popular poem to be exploited, they aren’t a love song,
They are pain,
There is no sleep,
It’s like caffeine injected,
I don’t fall to sleep, I’m switched off,
Inhuman and infected,
Where every sound,
Every fly-buzz or quiet breath screams like a lion roar.
This is my disease and my life.
Not a poem, these words don’t match up and my grammar is off,
The lines are too long and the words don’t rhyme.
My socks don’t line-up.
©Delroy T Mmusi
Featured image courtesy of Google.