Tied Up By My Invisible Illness, poem by Drem

I can’t find where I published this poem. I’m putting everything into my Google Drive and can’t find where it was published on here. It should have because chronically, it’s like this one is not here. 1, 2, 3, 4, 6. Where is 5!?!? This is 5.

Maybe I skipped it because I didn’t like it.


Image from http://www.medscape.com

Tied Up By My Invisible Illness, poem by Drem

Originally written 2012. Updated August 18, 2016


“Chained to a chair.

Opiates. Narcotics. Numbness.

This is my existence.

I’m not saying I hate it.

Forget the shovels and buckets

to try to dig me out.

I’m not saying I hate it here.

So, stop.

My blood shot eyes

tire to stay open

as they drift off.

Eyelids’ fall.

One black lash gently against my porcelain cheek.

Kiss it.

I don’t mind it here at all.

I’m numb.


I can fly so high above myself.

Above this chair.

Above this world.

I can see the whole universe.

Places otherwise unknown to me.

Every ocean

at their deepest depth.

All of this I could never see

without the drugs that set me free-

my mind free-

as my body

suffers in that chair.

My body in pain and entrenched

in the trenches of my invisible illness.

You can’t see what I feel.

But I feel it.

And what I feel is terrible.

Shooting pains.

Nerve damage.

Myelin degeneration.

Do you even know what that is?

Loss of thought,




My own lungs can’t even fully expand.

I choke on the air around me.

I’m Stage 2

and it’s only getting worse.


Truth be told

these hazy dreams

that feed my freedom

and supply my sanity-

the only things that

make my life worth living-

well, they’re disappearing.

Soon I won’t be able to visit.

Won’t be able to visit the moons and the stars

via my drug-induced visions.

I’ll be stuck in my body

because supplies are short.

Governments have double downed.

Pain management

now requires regular check-ins.

And the street prices are out of control.

I really hate being down here.

In myself.

Now would be  good time to help me up.

Understand, quality of life is something I hold dear.

And sitting here

on my third Vicodin

in my bed

with the television on

in the background

to Comedy Central

leads my zombified brain

into dark thoughts and bubbling anxiety.

I can’t live

without my opiate visits to


Chained to a chair.

No fairy dust now.

Just welfare checks.

Chained to a chair.

No imaginary friends.

Just television.

Chained to a chair.

No races to run or rivers to swim.

Just a ticking clock

ticking down

to when my ticket’s up.

Chained to a chair.

I miss you opiates.


Anything and everything

that helped me fly away.

Come get me.

Come get me.

My ankles are sore from the chains around them

attached to the chair.

Chained to a chair.

To a chair.”



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