**This is a poem I wrote nearly a decade ago – it was published here in this space back in 2013 after it suffered failure in a Diabetes Poetry contest (the winning submissions far cheerier).
I revisited it, tweaked it, and offer it up to you, once again.**
Somewhere inside me a sickness lingers, seeping through my pin-pricked fingers;
no trust in my body, faith goes to machine, as I surrender to a secret regime.
Assignment comes not by class, but in type, we run on schedule to keep things tight;
my biology no longer feels organic, with bells and whistles I now sound mechanic.
Robbed of things I will never find, my hands are as shaky as my mind;
what works for some does not for all, yet we form something strangely familial.
Inside communications can frustrate, as it freely flows outside the gate;
with information too complex to understand, I make cautious movements with slight-of-hand.
Some days are low and others high, each one comes as sun to sky;
the peace found there sets me free, to accomplish what they cannot see.
Rows of vials, once full of life, offer little comfort in times of strife;
drawing liquids is a mastered art, not a craft for the faint of heart.
Situations are muddled, no steadfast rules, being weighted down by countless tools;
I take instruction, I hear what they say, but punishment happens anyway.
Life continues despite the woes, with a transparency to distinguish foes;
new breath drawn, in the light of day, we carry on, no matter come what may.