I enter the room,
where you sit on your throne,
wearing black robes of royalty.
King of the court
reigning high, to decide my fate.
What do you know of me?
Not my painful struggle with life everyday.
Papers lay on your desk, written by doctors,
who don't live with dystonia's relentless storm.
No control; I twist, shake and pull in the torture chair.
I am here without choice.
To decide if I am disabled,
worthy to receive a pittance to live on.
You shift through conflicting papers,
asking questions that I can hopefully answer.
You look up, over your half glasses.
I feel like a court jester for your amusement.
My head dances as I nod yes for no,
I turn right for left.
A spasm spills hot coffee on my dress.
Our bodies are out of tune,
but our brains still function.
You should help us find our place.
We could give this world
a more compassionate face.
We are brave citizens,
fighting body battles, enduring pain,
surviving with strength, facing our fears.
We have much to teach.
People need to hear.
By: Kathie Stehr
Feb. 17.2000
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