The Visitors

I comb and pull back my hairs

As I adjust my clothes once again

"Its a sin to look so unkempt 

when visitors come by your house"

Mother's voice still ringing in my head

I feel weak and want nothing but sleep

Yet as I catch my reflection in the mirror

I look as hale and hearty as always

My skin's smooth and supple 

And my smile still as bright 

Its no wonder I fool everyone so easily

Of how I really hurt inside

I am trained to be a perfect host

Equipped with enough anecdotes, jokes & stories

And so one by one they come

Each with their quirks and comments

All playing expert doctors and healing shamans

On pains they've never experienced before

Some blame my poor old Buddha statute 

That welcomes them to my home

As harbinger of my poor fate

And some prays so loud for my recovery

I secretly believe that their gods must be deaf 

I nod, smile and pretend to agree

Just so they leave quicker and I sleep

Although 'sleep' means more of myself

Curl up in a ball and wishing for the pain 

To stop and the medicines to work.