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In my dreams I am five years younger
	able-bodied, these are the stories I tell.
This is not senescence, just painful reminiscence.
	My age says I should still be young.

Illness brings on pity, disbelief, sympathy
	it's a chilling tone I hear in their voices,
and I hide the pain in my room.
	When I can I hide in dreams.

Another doctor, another test, another medication
	more side effects, more fatigue,
more days wondering how I move.
	More days wondering if it is worth it to breathe.

	My age says I should still be young.

I don't know if being angry at my body does any good
	but I rage anyways.
Rage blinds me to the pain, it gives me control
	as do dreams.

Though waking brings the pain of memory
	the what was, what may never be again.
I rise again and fix my face and pretend acceptance;
	maybe some days I believe in it.

	My age says I should still be young.

This doctor says there is hope,
	this doctor gives me another referral
another treatment to put faith in.
	I know to believe but I am faithless.

I hold on tight, I don't know what to surrender to
	a shred of hope to cling to
or that this is who is and will be, deep down I know
            it's a combination of the two.

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