Defective and Neglected Parts

The every day struggle with myself.

Eyes are twitchy.
They beg me for something else to look at.
Soon, I tell them. Soon.
They don't really believe me,
but they'll humor me for now,
and allow me a vision.

Hands, so shaky.
They dry themselves and crack
in protest of the injustices done to them:
too much work- not enough frolic-
no extra upkeep to maintain their youthful appearance.
I promise them a coat of lime green nail polish,
give their nails some pizzazz.
Hands say they'll hold me to it.

Legs, they grow a-weary,
and they begin to trudge,
threatening not to take any more steps,
telling me to sit down.
No, I tell them sternly.
Have you gone soft?
You are twenty five years old.
You have never ran a marathon, or had a child.
You are my reliable source of transportation.
Haven't we been through a lot together?
You are not quitting now. Go.
They look ashamed,
and then step up the pace.
That's better.

Back whines, Head screams, Feet mumble.
A mess of defective and neglected parts.
It's all one general complaint.
I keep going with a system of rebuke and promise.

I wonder,
If someday,
I will have to sit down in little dark room,
just me-no one else,
and deal with all the voices in an organized manner.
File all the complaints, take notes-

Actively listen to each grievance
until I discover

what is
truly wrong

with me.