Tourettes's: A Poem
POEM BY AMY NANCARROW.
One in a hundred, that is the chance -
To be watched, uncontrolled,
The need to give into the hunch.
Hyperactivity then the regret –
I feel the invisible,
An urge to forget,
As the children lay pointing,
Across the roller top desks.
Bright white light -
A clock ticks and I tick back.
I am the architect,
Stuck in a straitjacket.
Genteel and burning red,
Compulsions stuck in my head -
Spoken words never intended to be said,
Locked together as chains on a fence.
My hands are restless, tense,
My heart bleeds a humiliating beat,
But I am small and cannot comprehend,
That this is just who I am.
One day I shall rise and never fall down again,
Make peace with your misery -
Or fail to see the celebration of -
A new foundation, freedom is dead.
I wish to be a portrait,
Smooth and weightless,
With each stroke, I make no movement,
The beautiful colours provide relaxation,
And I’ll stand without any intrusion.
A pigmentless position -
My expression the same, for years to come,
There is no pain.
This can never be the case,
My body disjointed and unafraid,
Sat flat in a building unchanged,
In front of a white coat ready for examination.
Taking in what I already know -
This disposition is freeing,
A diagnostic explanation of fear,
Perished in understanding.
I rock back in relief,
Then fall forward in disbelief,
There is no taking in the history,
The misplaced conceptions pushed upon me.
My head pushed up against my hands.
There are two reactions,
One is calm and fair.
The other enraged and scared.
I am forced to leave the canvas,
It has become so lonely, my mind encumbered.
It was never not normal, only circumstantial,
One in a hundred, those are the chances.
EDITORIAL NOTE: This article has been reuploaded and was originally published in 2023.