I.B.S. – Imprisoning Bowl Slavery

As a youth, I had no care what I ate;
Unaware of my impending dietary fate.

I’m now a prisoner and no longer myself;
A slave to my own digestive health.

Irritable Bowl is a pain in the arse;
Making all of my meals into a farce.

Dictating every bite that I eat;
Never allowing the taste of a treat.

Instead I am shackled, forced to submit;
Without any mercy, not one little bit.

Each time I try to escape and be free;
The Syndrome is there, waiting for me.

To teach me the error of my ways;
On me a cruel game it plays.

With a pain in my stomach, it begins to distend;
How I wish this was it, and here it will end.

In fact it gets worse, like a knife to the gut;
Each jerk and twist, deepening the cut.

The only respite to lay down and wait;
Curled like a fetus and fearing my fate.

But punishment doesn’t take an immediate form,
The night is the calm and morning, the storm.

This storm can be simply inconvenient and mild;
Or much worse, more debilitating and wild.

At it’s most severe, the Syndrome will lurk;
Leaving me crippled and unable to work.

Having a penalty has changed how I live;
As the slightest mistake, it wouldn’t forgive.

My diet is now less sweet and rich;
What I miss most? I couldn’t say which.

Whether an Indian meal or jelly sweet;
Giving anything up is a difficult feat.

What’s hardest of all is the lack of control;
Losing what I enjoy and leaving a hole.

Managing my Syndrome and it’s restrictive hold;
A power struggle is beginning to unfold.

By learning what foods to avoid or eat;
I’m able to organise a plan of defeat.

Who will be victorious is too early to see;
But I hope for my happiness, the winner is me.

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