Wrong
It churns under the skin
with in the very depths
every upheaval overturns my strength
I can taste the disease.
The infection in my blood
is toxic and acidic
acrid and bitterly metallic
but there is no penicillin
for a cure.
I can’t even think of food.
I’ll lose that which I did not eat
because this incessant dripping
down my esophagus makes
it more and more upset
I can feel the affliction
of tiny microbes stuffed into my head
banging on my skull
penetrating my sinus cavities.
And it will not stop- these symptoms
endure any treatment
they won’t let me keep them down.
Only a matter of time until
I dry up like a raisin
dehydrate like a prune
A nameless disease to seal my fate
I have just been stepped on;
Now I know that no one will care
that no one could tell me what was
wrong
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