So this is just a poem, and I’m no doctor,
but what if you’re not that sick?
What if it’s the world that’s sick,
and you’re just doing your best to live in it,
to live with it? What if you fit imperfectly
into a world that was never built for perfection?
What if everything in the world is wonky,
and for sensing its wonkiness you are in fact
one of its less wonky bits? Hear this:
what if your head and heart are working overtime
for a corrupt boss? What if the world itself
is a corrupt boss – are you sick, or is he?
Listen to me: you’re not as askew as they say you are.
You suffer in a world ripe for suffering.
Take heart from that. And do what you need to do
to ease your pain, but let no one say
you’re sick for the feeling of it.
Joshua Seigal
