I'm told that we don't like to write
about our most banal of woes.
It's such an inconvenient blight
to fit into our tight-knit prose.
We want our art to speak of Life
(or sometimes grieve for lives that were).
But Sickness is a passing strife;
it isn't really who we are.
and yet this fever rages on
my head in fog
my stomach turned
my throat is tight
my lungs on fire
and every bone and muscle sore
Until I can do something real,
it seems that I am sadly stuck
expressing how I really feel
by yelling fuuuuuuuuuuuuck