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My free-verse poem about ticcing

Ticcing.

Imagine having no control.

Of yourself, your muscles, vocals:

You fling your limbs or scream aloud,

And everyone stops to stare.

Trying your hardest to suppress the urge.

After what seems like hours,

You realize it’s pointless,

And you tic.

People point and laugh,

As though they’re watching a clown.

Causing you to want to flee your town.

They don’t — and never will — understand.

You feel like a fish out of water,

Flopping around with no control.

This is what it means to tic.

And this — is Tourette Syndrome.

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5 Comments

  1. Haha, awe. Well I’m glad you all like it! It was actually a poem I typed up real quick for my lit. class. :D Feel free to rap it.

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