slice and dice, scalpels and knives
reach inside to fix the mess
hiding the stitches and scars
with mounds of cloth and plaster,
pretty packaged disasters,
serving more form than function
casts made to show off and sign,
wheels to evoke sympathy
but the vehicle crashes,
and you're supposed to walk off
encouraged by idiots
who say it should be easy
one foot in front of the next,
people do it all the time
but they'll never see the truth:
falling and getting back up,
undisguised whispers, 'cripple'
and fighting the lure of pills
the weary hitchhiker's way,
the road to recovery
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem