Sickness

 

Vomit stained words

caught in my teeth,

straining to be heard,

acid leeching its way

through my cheeks.

Seeping into

the porous holes,

dripping until

the floor is full, puddles

congealed at my feet.

The sickness

made me weak,

and my mind burred,

the only cure

I thought was sleep,

close my eyes

to mimic death.

Maybe the illness

would take its leave,

if I just

hold my breath

and play dead.

 

But you can't run

from thoughts that crowd,

they spill out a diagnosis,

prognosis not good.

Your mind gasps

as it all starts to flood.

 

Sink and hide

in the safety

of bed. The sickness would

have to find another

body to nauseate

instead.

Thinking he had

completed its rounds,

the doctor of death

goes about their day.

 

I lay depleted,

looking to the sky

begging for answers

as to why.

Had I eaten something funny?

A clown, or Smurf and turf perhaps.

Was I poisoned in the dining room

by colonel Peacock?

Did someone have

a voodoo doll of me,

A lock of my hair

and a blood sample

to conjure this feeling

inside so deep.

(Not again I prayed instinctively)

 

Twisted my agonised guts

like a towel rung dry,

a rainfall of emotions

dropped out of my ragged sighs.

Floated off leaving me,

I just want to cry.

Now I’m left with just

discomfort and pain

to keep me company again.

 

 

Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff

 
You can find my New books
"Tales from the 44A" and "Stations
here
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DBKXPN13/
and here

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0DFV8N7XH

 

Please buy a copy if you can

it would really help me
continue to do this.

Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle