Crack in my back,
Need something more,
to rend myself of this gore.
Pain is like rain,
coming down hard with no refrain.
My fingers run the edges as I trace,
the power of this frustrating brace.
With it, I walk and stand tall,
without, I am humped over, shallow and small.
Why, oh why, is life this way?
Please pain ... run, run, go away.
But it won't, just my luck,
and my every day is like ... what the f*ck.
(and yes ... the picture is a straightjacket,
not a postureizer)
Of all the challenges I have done on here here, this one is my craziest. So here it goes..........when I read what she said about the ad I can understand the response. The title sounds like a toy older people would use for sex if the are going into a slight Parkerson's disease state. But when I go to the site it looks like a ba backpac without the pac just straps. In conclusion, I never knew this was a real problem, and when it comes to sex, I dont want a tool to correct anything, the mission is to end up like a chinese jigsaw puzzzle at any age.
Hannah dug into the pile to the left of her under the watchful gaze of her neighbor. Janice had unwillingly decided to accept help to get her house clean so her landlord wouldn't evict her, but she made it very clear that she didn't trust Hannah. Hannah, though she was annoyed and wanted to just go home, had only agreed to help because she wanted to stop having Janice ask her to hold her belongings. Now, the two women were looking at their first pile of crap of many in Janice's home. Hannah grabbed a shirt and pulled, much to Janice's dismay.
"Be careful with that! You'll stretch it."
"Don't worry; I've got this."
Hanna pulled out the shirt and looked skeptically at it. Unlike a regular shirt, it had a metal rod down the spine of it and two leather straps inside of it.
"What the hell is this?"
"Give me that!" Janice grabbed for it but Hannah pulled it away and wandered a few steps away to inspect it.
After a few seconds of her turning the garment over in her hands, Hannah began to laugh.
"You bought a posture corrector?"
"It was for a date!" Janice yelled.
She snatched the shirt away and pressed the wrinkles out with her hands. Hannah was still laughing.
"Could he not tell?"
"Shut up!" Janice yelled. She was on the brink of tears.
"What else did you buy from QVC? Do you have a Trumpy Bear too?" Hannah cackled.
Janice was yelling, but Hannah was too busy laughing. Janice lunged at her, and Hannah stepped back to avoid her, only to succeed in falling in the trash that Janice had filled the walkway with. Hannah tried to stand, noticed a teddy bear with flopping orange hair and just laughed harder, despite Janice's tearful screams for her to get out of of her house.
An Open Letter To My Love:
I am so sorry, Hector.
For not buying you a Posture Corrector.
I saved up for months.
Had garage sales.
Put up a Lemonade stand.
I even sold myself.
But, in the end it was not enough.
And neither am I.
You are a good man.
You deserve a soulmate who can provide for you that which I cannot.
I may one day return home with a Posture Corrector. I may die trying to obtain one.
But, in the end, don't you forget, you are worth the pursuit.
-a letter found in the pocket of a decapitated confederate soldier, musket still in hand, at the Siege of Vicksburg, July 2, 1863.
The Price of Age
The tight straps on my back are loosely refraining the immense pain on my spine. Add physical therapy to that, I’m completely exhausted from dealing with the darned bone crusher.
That’s my daily routine.
Damn, the price of getting older.
What was that ad about Posture Corrector?
Hard knock life, for us
it’s a beautiful day for a soujurn,
perhaps a flyby mission.
but I fear , I hear the sounds of my backups,
the feel of the auxilary systems ,
better run a check, Houston.
Knick knock, they pop, they crickle.
they never spring, those units of my back, those vertebrea will never hold well anymore.
this is not a countdown,
no T-minus stuff. I hope
just too many Gs,
even if it’s just one.
Gravity eccelerates me downwards,
to the well, to the hole.
There is fuel left, thank god,
the rocket still stands,
it just needs a rig,
to hold things up.
so all you,
who wait by the launchpad, grinning.
all of you , doubters, know this:
someday, your time comes crunching, popping.
’Cause the rockets, they change,
but the launchpad stays the same.
and if this truth upsets, friend
and wait under the exhaust vent.
this bell can pop as well.
and I dare you, brave space cadets,
to tell me that with all your youth,
with your fully-charged packs,
you take the stairs!