My life may not be straightforward, and it may not be conventional
It may not please everybody, but perhaps it touches some
My life is getting used to being lived for me first
And others later.
Everyday it makes me feel guilty for claiming it back,
It tells me I need to do more.
But really, whatever I can do should be good enough.
Each day that I live in the outside world,
And not desperately in a hospital
Each day that I wake up and swallow it down
Is a triumph.
I wonder if I mean enough
Or give enough
Or help enough.
Perhaps my existence makes no mark,
Perhaps I change nothing,
Maybe - just maybe...
...I am okay.