Being sick brings a new meaning to doing well
I’m sick of being sick of everything
The way I live
The circle that I walk in day in and day out
I’m sick and though I’m coughing and scratching at my throat knowing it will only get worst
It doesn’t matter
I could be on my deathbed and still want to write
Even if I’m not heard it will change the sickness of going nowhere into taking one step forwards
Yet repetitively I will always take two steps back
My steps are to the breaths I take
in and out
A waltz going in back and forth with no one to hold me
No one to be my one
The one that has the cure to my sickness
So when my thought spew out of this sick brain of mine, my words won’t scratch because of my cure
You are my one
My cure
It’s a tragedy within a tragedy that my cure was crushed under the boot of society
Broken from the nothingness of keeping you thoughts to yourself .
The fact is in a world with 7,632,819,325 people it’s next to impossible to find your one
Most likely they too were crushed
Crushed by the sickness that is our world and we are all desperate to find a cure
Some opted out
Others try to gain everything but in doing so they lose everything
Others focus on after death
A god can’t stop you from dying we are all gonna die one day
This is the cure
**** trying to out live death
If you hope so much for a heaven then make this life heaven
A heaven so grand that if heaven is real than it can only pray to be as good as life
Eternal life sounds like a pain in the ***
If I get a choice I think I’ll opt out
Short and sweet is a saying for a reason
I guess Forgot that while writing
My thought don’t stop so nether do my poems they are not short and sweet in my head
They continue on never stoping for breaks they are only silenced by the next thought which flows so loud that I can’t do anything but write for hours on end and then as if a tsunami I wipe out the city I built from endless poems.
It will never