Author Information
What It's Like To Be Sick In A Poets Life
My stomach is churning
like the way butter is made.
I can feel my insides
mashing together with such pain.
Such a pain that doesn't only cause discomfort,
but there is tears, and agony
haunting my every move.
My head is sweating
like I just ran a marathon,
but it is followed by the chill,
the chill sends shivers down my spine,
and my head is frozen.
I fluctuate between the two,
only finding myself unsure
if I want a blanket,
or a tanktop.
The virus is clawing at me.
My stomach still churning away;
my head fluctuating.
I can feel the pinching nerves in my back
as they crumble down my strong walls.
The exaughstion I feel
reminds me of the sleep I am being deprived of.
The water trickles down my throat,
the only thing I will put in my body.
This virus captures my mind,
holding me with a constant axiety
of how long this will last.
Am I dying?
Am I recovering?
What is wrong with me?
Author's Notes/Comments:
As of now, I have the stomach flu. Thought I'd make it sound worse than it is. HAHA! 
mAY u GET WELL SOON
COMMON COLD
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I'm not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.
Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
©bishu
Ha ha! Thank you for that.
Ha ha! Thank you for that. Very funny. (:
Small girl with a big heart. -Jo