In My Illness, a Poem

There’s, that sense of getting tired of all of this, I don’t want this anymore here, translated…

Call it Freedom, I Suppose, Five Milligram’s Worth

Heard that the Parking Lot of the Pharmacy

The Evening Breezes from the Metal Shells

because you’re ill, and this, is one of the fastest way to get cured…not my photo…

What Made the Wooden Blinds Swayed on

Those Pairs of Eyelids Were, the Shadows from the Clouds

After Sailing Through the Tarp Pavements

getting that drip in, not my photo…

Like Those Old Ropes from the Mills

My Numbed Out Limbs, Made of Stone

The Center Hollowed, Freely Turned

That Self, Had, Destroyed the Self

and, don’t forget, those MEDICATIONS too!!!

and yes, you’ll, NEED ALL of these…not my photo…

So, this, is how it is, living with an illness (physical OR mental” felt, and this was from a trip to the pharmacies to pick up one’s medications, and, there’s, that sense of helplessness, of how long the illness is dragging on, that tiring out of life…

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