Not Now
Crazy.
That's what you are.
Only nobody says it.
At least not to you.
Not even the doctors
Who use words a mile long instead
Words you never heard before
Yet you know they mean "crazy."
Because what else are you
When you talk to God?
Or when you still wait to see Him
Even though you know He's not really there?
You wait for Him as a nurse or doctor
To come in and tell you it will be okay
And give you another mission
And some more faith as well.
But He's not a doctor or a nurse
At least not now.
For the first time since you saw Him
You're sure it won't be okay.
That doesn't stop them from saying it will
As they give you an IV for the millionth time
Or hold up your hair as you heave
Even when they know it's not true.
Your family says so, too
But you can see
In their faces and eyes
That's not okay at all.
They can't deal with this again
Another child sick forever
A child who saw people that weren't real
And they didn't notice for all that time
So you think they must be revealed
When the doctor suggests Gentle Acres
So someone else can deal with you
And things you thought you saw.
And you're relieved, too.
You won't have to talk to Adam
Who thinks you're crazy
And who didn't believe
So when you're well enough
To leave to the hospital
You pack your bags for crazy camp
And leave yourself behind.