An inner intensive ward groan, a rumble in the jungle without any immediate fame, cramps pulse without any soothing from the dull lamp glow, hurt stamps your thoughts every minute’s worth. Ache now with a persistent frown, misery skin is taught tight on your thin over stretched aching hide, organs begin to sigh their repetitive beats, as early symptoms seem misunderstood by fresh faced, be speckled groomed locums.
Appointments seem a distant hope, just sit among the frantic self-diagnosed, with their constant mind-numbing tricks: can’t see beyond the distant inner itch, the colon stitch, or stomach strain and heads weighted ton. Stumble sky-ward now to realise wild blurred visions, but met instantly by a narrowing dark lane, with its spit filled pit consuming your distant bleak horizons peak.
Medications prescribed miss match your inner strain, dull muscle pick then pull on the constant strain, pain goes south then west all over drain, a tired lessening glow consumes your former fighting bull. The worn-out hue, damp-soaked view, revisit the old closet hung with its earlier inch cloth, skinny moist bones only wets your futures consumers trough.
Scratch inward stroke, rub strain away with an aggressive pink poke, stretch sinew straight, ghost pains reach aloft with upward prayer, no answer to be found up there. Bone on bone, spurs reach out to nerve shredding tingles, rough diamond cuts on wet stomachs pumice stone soft. Waterboarding would be less intrusive, plier pulled finger nails would be unresponsive.