I'm clammy, I'm cold,
I'm weak at the knees
My eyelids are drooping,
Spine tingles and freezes.
My head is pounding,
My heart is, too,
But I know that I am
Not down with the flu.

The curse of the woman,
Monthly revamps
Dehydration, emotions,
Bloating, and cramps.
I want to go home,
I'm not feeling too well.
I watch the clock,
Waiting for the bell.

Living with this
Is like living in hell.

If you start to yell and scream,
Count on me to freeze.
I can't take anger directed at me,
I was born with a disease to please.

Average grades are shameful here.
No more B's and C's.
"Good" is just not good enough
When you have a disease to please.

I know people who pass through life,
Jumping hurdles with ease.
I tell myself "not high enough,"
Thanks to my disease to please.

Emotions take more than fair
In situations like these.
I'm completely drained, robbed, ****** dry
From my disease to please.

All this pressure takes its toll,
Constantly, I feel my heart squeeze.
Breaths are rapid, running short,
And I'm dying from my disease.

Time.
Wispy, sugary, gentle time.
Floating through the air.
Long afternoons in the sun,
Gentle warmth on my legs as I lie.
Time floats by like dandelion seeds
On a windless day.

Time.
Sticky, rotten, putrid time.
Dripping through my fingers.
A day in the car,
Breathing the same air you have for hours.
Time slides down my limbs like a slug
In the early hours.

Time.
Bubbly, hot, electric time.
Reaching to touch– for a second.
Final bows,
A pure high that flows through every vein.
You blink, and then it's over,
Existing solely in memory.

Time.
Sharp, tight, abrasive time.
Sitting heavy on my chest.
Yelling, quick movement.
It closes in, overwhelming, stifling.
When I finally breathe, it's much later,
Like my sanity, it's gone.

Time.
Moving, fluid, dancing time.
Existing without a thought.
It moves on, when we don't.
Day, by week, by month, by lifetime.
I observe it passing, a train out the window,
And I wave.

Seven cooks in the kitchen, making spaghetti,
Each one hurrying and rushing to ready.
My *** of bolognese, succulent, simmering,
Sits on the front right burner, heat shimmering.

One chef diligently tossing a salad,
Another one turns on a calm Italian ballad.
"Help!" Cries a cook as she comes running in.
"My Alfredo sauce won't work! It's much too thin!"

"Not to worry, my friend," I console the bereft.
"My burner is hot, take my place." I move left.
Things are a bit more crowded with her,
But I happily give my sauce a good stir.

Things are running more smoothly now,
'Til another chef bursts in (also having a cow).
"The spaghetti is cooking, but keeps boiling out!"
I think long and hard as the chef starts to pout.

"I'll push my *** back, so you can still see,
"My sauce will be fine for a minute or three."
My time in the kitchen has made me a quick learner,
So I smile as I move bolognese to the back burner.

"Stand and watch through the oven door," I said,
To keep a chef from burning his garlic bread. Another chef needs melted butter in her dessert.
Letting her use the microwave can't hurt.

All these chefs doing their work in a blur
Prevent me from giving my sauce a needed stir.
As minutes pass— five, eight, twelve, sixteen—
I begun to understand what the phrase means.

Although the situation is very fitting,
There's just too many cooks in the kitchen.
I don't want to let the wind out of their sails,
So I take a step back, waiting and biting my nails.

Time to dish up, and all chefs leave the area
And I approach my sauce on the verge of hysteria.
It's now much too thick, the bottom is black.
I've neglected my job while picking up slack.

There's no one to blame, I should've learned
If you move to back burner your dish will be burned.
Other chefs are being praised by our boss,
And I'm in the kitchen with a *** of bad sauce.