Stress

I’m not sick.

I’m perfectly healthy.

I run when I can pull myself out of bed,

And I eat when I remember to.

I’m not sick.

At least that’s what everyone says.

I’m over-reacting,

And overly sensitive.

Because women get nervous.

And men don’t.

Where I live, we have one doctor.

He hates to see me. No, 

he doesn’t say that, but I can tell.  Because 

I’m not sick. I just can’t 

sleep, can’t eat, can’t find peace.

Last time I told the doctor how I was feeling,

He diagnosed me using modern science, 

Of the twentieth century.

The diagnosis said: 

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Because I'm not sick.

And I should get over it.