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"pneumonia" poems
“Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about. When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”. The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide… But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.”
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Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
An article I read. "Robin Williams did not die from suicide."
“Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about. When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”. The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide… But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.”
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4
i hope you get into medical school so all i have to do is eat an apple everyday i hope you always have money to buy extra bread-sticks but never the self control stop eating them i hope your 15 seconds of fame falls on daylight savings i hope you never avoid movie or tv spoilers   i hope your children are loved and cared for but have their hearts broken by mine i hope you always anticipate a surprise birthday party i hope you always wake well rested 3 hours late for work i hope you dance in the metaphoric rain and catch metaphoric pneumonia i hope your next thanksgiving is spent in an airport i hope you are mildly inconvenienced every morning i hope all your book pages stick together i hope that you always will question if you left your oven on i hope your future roommates always use all the hot water i hope you always find the words to say but never the right time to say them i hope you never figure out how to pick a ripe avocado i hope all your dinners are directly impacted by the fickle nature of a toaster oven i hope your curiosity gets the better of you and you find out what cat food tastes like i hope your favorite band breaks up and you miss their kick *** reunion tour i hope you watch an unhealthy amount of daytime tv i hope you outlive me on the off chance that your paper boy will miraculously skip your house on the day my obituary is printed because nothing would make my ghost happier to know that you were forced to find out after  literally everyone else that i passed away in my sleep surrounded by people who loved me while you sat in your house old grey never thinking of me until you read some 50 words in a newspaper and even if its for a second i want you to wonder what kind of life i had because you will have had no part in it.
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Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
finding elegant ways to say go **** yourself
i hope you get into medical school so all i have to do is eat an apple everyday i hope you always have money to buy extra bread-sticks but never the self control stop eating them i hope your 15 seconds of fame falls on daylight savings i hope you never avoid movie or tv spoilers   i hope your children are loved and cared for but have their hearts broken by mine i hope you always anticipate a surprise birthday party i hope you always wake well rested 3 hours late for work i hope you dance in the metaphoric rain and catch metaphoric pneumonia i hope your next thanksgiving is spent in an airport i hope you are mildly inconvenienced every morning i hope all your book pages stick together i hope that you always will question if you left your oven on i hope your future roommates always use all the hot water i hope you always find the words to say but never the right time to say them i hope you never figure out how to pick a ripe avocado i hope all your dinners are directly impacted by the fickle nature of a toaster oven i hope your curiosity gets the better of you and you find out what cat food tastes like i hope your favorite band breaks up and you miss their kick *** reunion tour i hope you watch an unhealthy amount of daytime tv i hope you outlive me on the off chance that your paper boy will miraculously skip your house on the day my obituary is printed because nothing would make my ghost happier to know that you were forced to find out after  literally everyone else that i passed away in my sleep surrounded by people who loved me while you sat in your house old grey never thinking of me until you read some 50 words in a newspaper and even if its for a second i want you to wonder what kind of life i had because you will have had no part in it.
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34
i peeked into your secret i unbottuned your sensitivity with your own sarcasm you blew my vietnam my heart is a touchy speaker cable and you sparked me up now i am empty beer bottles oscillating in your hand and then you set me down i am your nostalgia and you can only think of bad things like bruised knees and gout and that summer you had walking pneumonia and syphilis and you cried every night into your mother's arms i am the cancer you faked in order to gain attention i am that boy that fell for it and gave you syphilis i am your shaved head on picture day in the 9th grade i am your solitude i am your noise i am your virginity being taken in the backseat of your brother's best friend's parent's camaro when you were 15 and more than willing
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Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 7:26 PM UTC
Walking Pneumonia
He will not light long enough for the interpreter to gather the tatters of his speech. But the longer we listen the calmer he becomes. He shows me the place where his daughter has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks raising a skeletal pattern on his chest. He thinks he's been hit by the wind. He's worried it will become pneumonia. In Cambodia, he'd be given a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice, the right chants to say. But I know nothing of Chi, of Karma, and ask him to lift the back of his shirt, so I may listen to his breathing. Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned by the whirl of icons and script tattooed across his back, their teal green color the outline of a map which looks like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake, then a scroll of letters in a watery signature. I ask the interpreter what it means. It's a spell, asking his ancestors to protect him from evil spirits— she is tracing the lines with her fingers— and those who meet him for kindness. The old man waves his arms and a staccato of dipthongs and nasals fills the room. He believes these words will lead his spirit back to Cambodia after he dies. I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder. He takes full deep breaths and I listen, touching down with the stethoscope from his back to his front. He watches me with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict. His lungs are clear. You'll be fine, I tell him. It's not your time to die. His shoulders relax and he folds his hands above his head as if in blessing. Ar-kon, he says. All better now.                                                         by Peter Pereira .
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Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
What's Written on the Body (Peter Pereira)
He will not light long enough for the interpreter to gather the tatters of his speech. But the longer we listen the calmer he becomes. He shows me the place where his daughter has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks raising a skeletal pattern on his chest. He thinks he's been hit by the wind. He's worried it will become pneumonia. In Cambodia, he'd be given a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice, the right chants to say. But I know nothing of Chi, of Karma, and ask him to lift the back of his shirt, so I may listen to his breathing. Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned by the whirl of icons and script tattooed across his back, their teal green color the outline of a map which looks like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake, then a scroll of letters in a watery signature. I ask the interpreter what it means. It's a spell, asking his ancestors to protect him from evil spirits— she is tracing the lines with her fingers— and those who meet him for kindness. The old man waves his arms and a staccato of dipthongs and nasals fills the room. He believes these words will lead his spirit back to Cambodia after he dies. I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder. He takes full deep breaths and I listen, touching down with the stethoscope from his back to his front. He watches me with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict. His lungs are clear. You'll be fine, I tell him. It's not your time to die. His shoulders relax and he folds his hands above his head as if in blessing. Ar-kon, he says. All better now.                                                         by Peter Pereira .
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43
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence And start scrambling eggs, Ending sentences with verbs, Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon Where violet doesn’t recognize blue As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew, And then your brain smiles to your ****** And you choke on a giggle And wiggle an index finger just a little And remember black widows Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies Like wearing Armani suits barefoot And breathing through your skin Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms And leave a beautiful corpse With great stories suffocating inside And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous. Now ever heard a genius cry? ‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry. Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon? ‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry. Ever read these written words? ‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure— The universal language of immaculate deception That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil With oxygen choking your nostrils And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny Like how a dose of metamorphosis And a 1mg of juxtaposition Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon. But ever heard a musical note?   Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness. Ever heard the sound of silence? Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar, Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love. Ever heard a Mockingjay sing? Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide, Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
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May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
EXU
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence And start scrambling eggs, Ending sentences with verbs, Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon Where violet doesn’t recognize blue As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew, And then your brain smiles to your ****** And you choke on a giggle And wiggle an index finger just a little And remember black widows Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies Like wearing Armani suits barefoot And breathing through your skin Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms And leave a beautiful corpse With great stories suffocating inside And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous. Now ever heard a genius cry? ‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry. Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon? ‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry. Ever read these written words? ‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure— The universal language of immaculate deception That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil With oxygen choking your nostrils And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny Like how a dose of metamorphosis And a 1mg of juxtaposition Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon. But ever heard a musical note?   Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness. Ever heard the sound of silence? Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar, Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love. Ever heard a Mockingjay sing? Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide, Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
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48
I pride myself on differences, but know at heart we're all one I tried to do the dishes, but only two knives made the cut. Now I wonder if I can accomplish more than thought possible judging dull wounds in grunting cans; feeling pistol grooves and wrist slitters, I am at home again. Lying, mining, dying figure heads make their way to the foot of my bed, and ask if they may lull me to sleep with dreams of pneumonia and epilepsy. I ask them to politely leave, but they perch on boasting names of society, reciting to me, too condescendingly, "surely, we know better than you." Now all of their heads fit askew. Save the money and excuse for material attachment. Keep running through your doll houses. I pull on my hair to make it grow. You pull on heart strings to teach a lesson, I suppose we're in the same sinking boat. But you are my vital poison. My body collapses- a muted a noise and- each time I awake perfectly poised at your feet and frozen mouth. How will I ever make you love me now? Life's a Hawaii postcard pleading, "go experience the vibrant colors." There's more to see beyond the rainbow trees, but they'll still satisfy most cravings. Every threaded fiber of my being keeps me pondering if cells are just too shy to speak, or if they've always spoken through me, whispering, "scratch to win the lottery." I want to write children's books, and release doves from hidden cages; watch awe wipe over next generation; use my candies as their safe haven. Away this world that have caused them pain- I Am its new name. Affection is a mistress of mine. I still crave her like sunlight. stare into her eye until I am blind She's addicting even after she harms you. I'll keep my heals neck deep in anxiously wading water. til I sing it into deep sleep, its current pulls me under. and I am at home again.
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Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC
I AM. (a figurative autobiographical poem)
I pride myself on differences, but know at heart we're all one I tried to do the dishes, but only two knives made the cut. Now I wonder if I can accomplish more than thought possible judging dull wounds in grunting cans; feeling pistol grooves and wrist slitters, I am at home again. Lying, mining, dying figure heads make their way to the foot of my bed, and ask if they may lull me to sleep with dreams of pneumonia and epilepsy. I ask them to politely leave, but they perch on boasting names of society, reciting to me, too condescendingly, "surely, we know better than you." Now all of their heads fit askew. Save the money and excuse for material attachment. Keep running through your doll houses. I pull on my hair to make it grow. You pull on heart strings to teach a lesson, I suppose we're in the same sinking boat. But you are my vital poison. My body collapses- a muted a noise and- each time I awake perfectly poised at your feet and frozen mouth. How will I ever make you love me now? Life's a Hawaii postcard pleading, "go experience the vibrant colors." There's more to see beyond the rainbow trees, but they'll still satisfy most cravings. Every threaded fiber of my being keeps me pondering if cells are just too shy to speak, or if they've always spoken through me, whispering, "scratch to win the lottery." I want to write children's books, and release doves from hidden cages; watch awe wipe over next generation; use my candies as their safe haven. Away this world that have caused them pain- I Am its new name. Affection is a mistress of mine. I still crave her like sunlight. stare into her eye until I am blind She's addicting even after she harms you. I'll keep my heals neck deep in anxiously wading water. til I sing it into deep sleep, its current pulls me under. and I am at home again.
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52
My face tells me nothing. Not nothing but nothing useful, the complications of ageing humorously but not how to avoid injury. Permanent injury is a now popular cliché. At this age any injury could result in pneumonia, pain in bitterness for your peers, your jury. What a headache I have! And never forget injury provokes at best only pity. Friends are merely friendly, they belong to the majority. They forget your name and so should you, who are you? Even you don't know for sure. In relation to community, no change was noted in       the registry. Still, man's mercy, economy's ecology, there's some joy in being small, some joy in staying strong, and keeping death before you without perjury. Unsafe to run the wind. A big stick might hit your head. Then the hip and heart and head will hurt, all three. Un- fortunately. I like a strong wind. Dangerous to go out in. As a fire or flood. I like the way we are at risk, not a risk-averse weasel. A carnivore, very hungry. Pay money, take chances. Yo's an elegant contraction of you. Cool. Message from street to board: mongrels rule. Democracy or tyranny. Scared to die? Why? Take appropriate measures, descend through meditation. Be empty, rest. And to your friends and sons be as gravity. Tired of death. It's what it is. Let's play sports, have *** kayak to the huckleberries, fish for marvelous fish, live a wonderful life, give generously. Done blowing, O wild wind? Not yet? So be it. I lay my head in your felt hands. The motion of the branches, evolutionary branches,       are my guarantee. That's all folks, 7:30. The sky is clear, the crows are out. The clouds are with my mood commensurate. I should shout, having lived prodigiously.
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Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
Injury
My face tells me nothing. Not nothing but nothing useful, the complications of ageing humorously but not how to avoid injury. Permanent injury is a now popular cliché. At this age any injury could result in pneumonia, pain in bitterness for your peers, your jury. What a headache I have! And never forget injury provokes at best only pity. Friends are merely friendly, they belong to the majority. They forget your name and so should you, who are you? Even you don't know for sure. In relation to community, no change was noted in       the registry. Still, man's mercy, economy's ecology, there's some joy in being small, some joy in staying strong, and keeping death before you without perjury. Unsafe to run the wind. A big stick might hit your head. Then the hip and heart and head will hurt, all three. Un- fortunately. I like a strong wind. Dangerous to go out in. As a fire or flood. I like the way we are at risk, not a risk-averse weasel. A carnivore, very hungry. Pay money, take chances. Yo's an elegant contraction of you. Cool. Message from street to board: mongrels rule. Democracy or tyranny. Scared to die? Why? Take appropriate measures, descend through meditation. Be empty, rest. And to your friends and sons be as gravity. Tired of death. It's what it is. Let's play sports, have *** kayak to the huckleberries, fish for marvelous fish, live a wonderful life, give generously. Done blowing, O wild wind? Not yet? So be it. I lay my head in your felt hands. The motion of the branches, evolutionary branches,       are my guarantee. That's all folks, 7:30. The sky is clear, the crows are out. The clouds are with my mood commensurate. I should shout, having lived prodigiously.
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38
I am often told that love will leave me breathless, But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest, For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved And my lungs unable to draw in breath, Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards With vice-like, snotty grips. My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically Drawing air inward, ******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs. My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins. The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival, No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary. Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me. The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells, And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing, Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest. The mark of my vitality was absent, And yet, I was very much alive. I remember what it was to be truly breathless, The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death. It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs. I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting, A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising. Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege. It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence. But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
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Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
Breathless
I am often told that love will leave me breathless, But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest, For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved And my lungs unable to draw in breath, Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards With vice-like, snotty grips. My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically Drawing air inward, ******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs. My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins. The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival, No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary. Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me. The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells, And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing, Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest. The mark of my vitality was absent, And yet, I was very much alive. I remember what it was to be truly breathless, The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death. It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs. I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting, A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising. Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege. It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence. But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
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30
i went down to florida and came back with pneumonia, maybe due to my life so busy running and running and getting so dizzy, always managing to stay on track costing my sleep to be in major lack, pushing myself past every limit enjoying it all and never feeling timid, but everyone said i'd eventually hit a wall i guess they were right after all.
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Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
a wall called pneumonia
It's not like the movies, There's no passion in your eyes And the sheets are getting cold, It's such a cliché, Standing in the rain, But pneumonia takes control, It's like a fever, Tensions running high But I must bite down on my tongue, You don't want it either, So cut off all your ties Let bridges burn beneath the Sun, Tighten the noose, Your hand is on the lever With no chance of letting go, Don't cut me loose, I want to feel the free-fall Get high from feeling low
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Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
Love Is Pessimism
In Your name, there is healing Cities with an epidemic illnesses Stands like the Mt. Horeb Mighty in posture forever As Your stretch stretch Your hands Leprosy’s from every nation cast down Desperate heart finds, its home In the green pasture besides the still water The night will be as it is But the morning bring great deliverance At some point of, there will be songs Of thankfulness from the inside Your love for us never fails and cease Springs of water flows like fountain From Your grace to my place Im once frail and sick but im release Far from the medicine and gurney Your faithfulness in my life Brings tremendous miracles in many ways I just I just declare it in faith and love I say to the world You are Healer A great Physician of the Father I experience it right now, the touch Tomorrow will be a testimony like no other
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May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 7:37 PM UTC
Meningitis And Pneumonia??
you spent an hour alone in the pouring rain fifty degrees and dropping waiting, waiting blocking out the chaos with those borrowed grey earbuds that bruise your ears maybe you wanted someone to see you and ask why or maybe you just wanted pneumonia
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Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
pneumonia
woke up 2pm this morning squandered all the afternoon building magic fortresses, high on rainbow rock til my eyes got sore and i got dizzy from a sunny, golden-yellow glare opened up the window, let in the draft let in the air (and risked pneumonia) and I started thinking clearly then, I started thinking when, the deathly cold, cursed, no-remove, fresh air got to my brain and i sat there by the window kept it open, 'spite the wind and rain just following my train of thought (and risked pneumonia) i felt that neither ice nor fire can do me harm but why is it right now i feel too cold yet still too warm feel like a fire can freeze me, and a breeze may bring me heatstroke, feels like some sick ******* joke but i started thinking clearly then, i started thinking clearly when my temperature went down and i got to thinking, and looking back to before cold felt warm and it came to me, i realized... (i didnt catch pneumonia)
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Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 5:29 AM UTC
Pneumonia
cervical cancer ovarian cyst open your mouth here's my fist stomach ulcer an inflammation disease got pneumonia from just a sneeze inflamed pelvis stomach cancer shut the **** up you don't know the answer heart attack blood clots watch me as my insides rot my brain thinks I've had every disease but its funny i've never had any of these
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Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 7:02 PM UTC
My Brain Thinks
She breaths octane gas polluting my heart, and paralyzes my emotions, love straining to restart. Blue blistering toes, pneumonia-driven prose, she aches the bone inside of me delivering a cold. Moving towards my aching soul, she finds my emptiness, tenfold. Gaseous toxic dust confides within my lungs, her selfish evil breath fills me, permanent distrust. She drinks blood through my straw-thin veins, detracts my serenity; swallows it all the same. Disfigured masterpiece discharged and broken on a hospital cart, you're jealousy tears me apart, I wait for the autopsy chart...
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Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 8:53 PM UTC
Vampire
Woke up five days ago, Steel pressers on my lungs, Coughing up blood... Work is a no go, But not a "No Call, No Show" "Walt I'm going to the ER, I can't make it in, I'm sorry." He understood, and I got Bear to drive me to the hospital. Feeling nervous, but in a sense like I'm over-reacting. Then two IV's in my arm a few oxygen tests, and some x-rays of my chest. "Pneumonia..... and you developed asthma through cigarette smoking." At twenty years old, I had the lungs of a forty year old. I've been praying for a reason to quit. Wow... I'm amazed.... God sure does work in mysterious ways.
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Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 3:51 PM UTC
....I'm amazed....
IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW* In Flanders fields the poppies blow Here my comrades and I are laden We fought for King and Country Here we are---the fallen. ‘Be proud’, was the national proclamation ‘ You are the chosen’ We left home and our loved ones Here we are—the ill-begotten. Some of us once upon glorious corridors Of Cambridge and Oxford had trodden The best and most fertile of young minds Here we are—the forgotten. How strong we then were, riding on the back of youth Its dreams so sweet and resplendent Rained by bullets in the battlefield Here we are---death has spoken. Pro patria gloria, dulcis pro patria mori (Never mind if our hearts were cruel and rotten We must **** all enemies over the fence) Here we are---the terrible who were chosen. Were we born to destroy and mutilate? But in the battle-front ---all we loved and espoused had been stolen Buried in dark pits of hate and revenge There we were----inhuman and despondent. Those whom we slaughtered and maimed Didn’t they like us once did hold dreams just as golden? Weren’t they who happiness sought as we did? Here we are—to bemoan all the precious from such that had been stolen. In Flanders fields the poppies weep For us who are far from home and have nowhere to return With the wind’s nightly melancholic sighs whispering in our ears Here we are----empty, with dark sins upon us—for absolution is all we yearn. • inspired by the opening line of John McCrae’s poem IN FLANDERS FIELDS published in December 1915 (Flanders is in Belgium where a million died or were maimed). John McCrae (1872—1918) was a Canadian doctor who joined the army as a gunner but later transferred to the medical service. IN 1918 he was made consultant to all the British armies in France but died of pneumonia before taking up the appointment.
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Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW
IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW* In Flanders fields the poppies blow Here my comrades and I are laden We fought for King and Country Here we are---the fallen. ‘Be proud’, was the national proclamation ‘ You are the chosen’ We left home and our loved ones Here we are—the ill-begotten. Some of us once upon glorious corridors Of Cambridge and Oxford had trodden The best and most fertile of young minds Here we are—the forgotten. How strong we then were, riding on the back of youth Its dreams so sweet and resplendent Rained by bullets in the battlefield Here we are---death has spoken. Pro patria gloria, dulcis pro patria mori (Never mind if our hearts were cruel and rotten We must **** all enemies over the fence) Here we are---the terrible who were chosen. Were we born to destroy and mutilate? But in the battle-front ---all we loved and espoused had been stolen Buried in dark pits of hate and revenge There we were----inhuman and despondent. Those whom we slaughtered and maimed Didn’t they like us once did hold dreams just as golden? Weren’t they who happiness sought as we did? Here we are—to bemoan all the precious from such that had been stolen. In Flanders fields the poppies weep For us who are far from home and have nowhere to return With the wind’s nightly melancholic sighs whispering in our ears Here we are----empty, with dark sins upon us—for absolution is all we yearn. • inspired by the opening line of John McCrae’s poem IN FLANDERS FIELDS published in December 1915 (Flanders is in Belgium where a million died or were maimed). John McCrae (1872—1918) was a Canadian doctor who joined the army as a gunner but later transferred to the medical service. IN 1918 he was made consultant to all the British armies in France but died of pneumonia before taking up the appointment.
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I cannot figure out how to unplug the Emotional Pin-Ball Game. And I am finished playing for now! There are nights when I am absolutely afraid to move. Anxiety and fear ~ my current nemesis. Like, one night, when I was on the phone with the therapist and he was telling me to get up and do something, I could not do it. And it was not because I was trying (in that very moment) to be argumentative and defiant, it was literally because my body was frozen and I could not move. And he seemed frustrated, which I understand, as he was trying to help me, and it’s not like he could grab my arm and physically move me (not that he would do that in his office either, but I suspect it’s a little bit easier for him to deal with me in that situation when we are in the same room). It’s so difficult for me to communicate at that point. Right now I am in this space where I really wonder how I can continue to live up to the person everyone thinks that I am. Who is this person that everyone has created in their minds with my name attached to it? This person that people are praising and say that I am doing great things…Why can I not see the Nita that they see?? I look in the mirror and see constant failure and disappointment. And I have to say that I am not really in the position right now to be all warrior-like and face all of it head-on. It is really one of those days when I want to curl up in a fetal position with a heating pad and pull the covers over my head. Even though the therapist would say that isn’t a good idea for me to hide myself away from all human contact…I still want too. I don’t have any desires to hurt myself; I’m just tired and I don’t want to be all happy and sunshiny for other people right now. My body hurts today. On top of my normal Crohn’s issues that I battle daily…my weak body has fallen to pneumonia. So for 6 days now I have been rotating from coughing to not being able to breathe…oh and let’s throw in a Crohn’s fare up at the same time. Way more fun than one person should be allowed to have.   WAH! I’m sure it’s all “emotional” overload, right? I feel like a pin-ball machine…hit the emotional ball and see where it bounces around and what part of my body it hits! Headache/dizziness: 100 points. Abdominal pain: 50 points. Nausea/vomiting: 150 points. Insomnia: 200 points.  Cramps/bleeding: 300 points. Coughing fit: 500 points. Uncontrollable shaking or inability to move at all: 1000 bonus points.
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Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:50 PM UTC
Emotional Pin-Ball Game
I cannot figure out how to unplug the Emotional Pin-Ball Game. And I am finished playing for now! There are nights when I am absolutely afraid to move. Anxiety and fear ~ my current nemesis. Like, one night, when I was on the phone with the therapist and he was telling me to get up and do something, I could not do it. And it was not because I was trying (in that very moment) to be argumentative and defiant, it was literally because my body was frozen and I could not move. And he seemed frustrated, which I understand, as he was trying to help me, and it’s not like he could grab my arm and physically move me (not that he would do that in his office either, but I suspect it’s a little bit easier for him to deal with me in that situation when we are in the same room). It’s so difficult for me to communicate at that point. Right now I am in this space where I really wonder how I can continue to live up to the person everyone thinks that I am. Who is this person that everyone has created in their minds with my name attached to it? This person that people are praising and say that I am doing great things…Why can I not see the Nita that they see?? I look in the mirror and see constant failure and disappointment. And I have to say that I am not really in the position right now to be all warrior-like and face all of it head-on. It is really one of those days when I want to curl up in a fetal position with a heating pad and pull the covers over my head. Even though the therapist would say that isn’t a good idea for me to hide myself away from all human contact…I still want too. I don’t have any desires to hurt myself; I’m just tired and I don’t want to be all happy and sunshiny for other people right now. My body hurts today. On top of my normal Crohn’s issues that I battle daily…my weak body has fallen to pneumonia. So for 6 days now I have been rotating from coughing to not being able to breathe…oh and let’s throw in a Crohn’s fare up at the same time. Way more fun than one person should be allowed to have.   WAH! I’m sure it’s all “emotional” overload, right? I feel like a pin-ball machine…hit the emotional ball and see where it bounces around and what part of my body it hits! Headache/dizziness: 100 points. Abdominal pain: 50 points. Nausea/vomiting: 150 points. Insomnia: 200 points.  Cramps/bleeding: 300 points. Coughing fit: 500 points. Uncontrollable shaking or inability to move at all: 1000 bonus points.
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I dreampt of you again last night --- so sweet , it was a nightmare . an apparition of your hand embalmed in mine . "poofing" in the smoke of my reality come back to life . the way you looked at me so fond ; I can never forget . it brings the tears like a monsoon . the time going on and on ; post -traumatic . I age ten years in the span of two months . living ; learning . and I still love you . like pneumonia that never leaves ... there is always a risk of the sickness again . take caution . do I want to fall ill again ? the second time may come to pass --- my death would then be on your hands (yours are so lovely) . and I am so lonely ...
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Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
the doctor prescribed me the wrong medication .
You leave the apostrophes to someone else, I can't even make it in to 'im', instead I'm writing papers about the Oneida and Jonestown murders. The television is on, the air purifier is dying. I can hear the ***** fan belt of my laptop on the fritz or the fizzy bubbles of The Cranberry Redbull that I'm trying. I could be a great sport. Ya know, anything you want. Jump to. Make the Miso soup, clear off the kitchen table, buy brand new markers with no recent pictures drawn into their nibs. Throw in comfy pants. I don't know what else I have to offer, a clean bath? Some books? A magazine? The weather is exciting, we could call get Pneumonia or at least share a drink and catch Hep-C, Put our children together to catch the gift of Shingles. A motorcycle toy for my Uritis it is better. The roses from the sweater paired with leather, leggings, and a kick *** song. Inside we can talk about his hair cut and going to California. I'm intimidated by you moreover when you tell me you can eat airplanes with only your bare hands. And even if I'm a bore, I still have Streptococcus. So seal and deliver. My cerulean goddess, with the best, thank thank you for the nightmare fever you stole from the words I wrote. And at the end of your book you don't have to cop out and fall along a crippled sky. With crippled words, verbs, and losers. Score cards of different colors. Tunics proud as the walk to the river we voted from Baptism to demon-voter. Stand and deliver, flora and fauna that threatens to eat our home.
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Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
Cessna 360
You leave the apostrophes to someone else, I can't even make it in to 'im', instead I'm writing papers about the Oneida and Jonestown murders. The television is on, the air purifier is dying. I can hear the ***** fan belt of my laptop on the fritz or the fizzy bubbles of The Cranberry Redbull that I'm trying. I could be a great sport. Ya know, anything you want. Jump to. Make the Miso soup, clear off the kitchen table, buy brand new markers with no recent pictures drawn into their nibs. Throw in comfy pants. I don't know what else I have to offer, a clean bath? Some books? A magazine? The weather is exciting, we could call get Pneumonia or at least share a drink and catch Hep-C, Put our children together to catch the gift of Shingles. A motorcycle toy for my Uritis it is better. The roses from the sweater paired with leather, leggings, and a kick *** song. Inside we can talk about his hair cut and going to California. I'm intimidated by you moreover when you tell me you can eat airplanes with only your bare hands. And even if I'm a bore, I still have Streptococcus. So seal and deliver. My cerulean goddess, with the best, thank thank you for the nightmare fever you stole from the words I wrote. And at the end of your book you don't have to cop out and fall along a crippled sky. With crippled words, verbs, and losers. Score cards of different colors. Tunics proud as the walk to the river we voted from Baptism to demon-voter. Stand and deliver, flora and fauna that threatens to eat our home.
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Mind of power Controls the crippled bodies dying; burnt By the sun. Hung by a far-reaching cold iron chain; Ringing with bursting, thrusting pain; Where the eyes are tissues of penetrating darkness that turns into tortured dreams. You can still hear the screams, The muttering, the mumbling, the confessions of the innocence that learnt The sufferings and sorrow of evil. I lay a flower Into blood and left it to float upon a river of ***** leaving A stream of pneumonia, a stream of the plague that Left the pungent smells of perfume dying. I watched their estranged faces, their eyes still crying. Bodies lie still awakened in trench like beds; lying flat On their backs as they left their loved ones grieving. ©Jack Aylward
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Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Sacrificed Innocence ==Afghanistan 2010== (Sonnet 7)
Walking down main street, not worried about the rain, was John Carpenter. Sure, he had on his hat and coat, but he had not remembered to grab his umbrella. Luckily his sister had not been with him or else she would have had a fit. She was always talking about how he needed to bundle up more, he only got pneumonia twice  year, and seemed to always have a cold. He didn't mind though. More often then not, a nice hot cup of coco, or brandy would clear his sinuses and he'd be fine. Today he did not have a cold and today he was walking down mainstream, letting the rain fall gently upon his face and shoulders. He passed the bar he so often frequented in his younger years, and saw a familiar face across the not so busy main street. He stopped then, rather suddenly, and slumped agaisnt the wall. My, it had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had talked to her. Looking across the street, through light traffic and light rains he remembered the other times he had looked upon her face. He remembered the last time he had done so while seeing her. They had woken up in bed, him before her as was usual. They had woken up to kisses and squeezes and the smell of cigarettes and brandy and parchment. Looking across the street he remembered everything about her, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair. He remembered the way she squeezed him tight, tighter than any other girl. He remembered the way she laughed after they kissed and he remembered how it had ended. A shameful night in March, two years ago. Drunkingly, he laid his hand upon her. Not in the nice way, but in the way his step father used to unto him. He did it because she would not go to the store to pick up more brandy. That is why he hit her. It was not the first time, though. The first time he had been drunk as well and it had been because she talked back to him, the way he would to his step father. Now, you must understand, she gave him a second chance. She swore that if he were to every lay a hand on her ever again she would be gone. He swore to her that he would never again do so. He would lay off the brandy and he would be the man he should be. The man his real father was, before he died. He would be a husband and a lover and a healer and a man. He promised these things. Then, two months later, he hit her again. This was the last time. She followed through on her promise and he did not see her until that moment, right then, as he looked across the street. He thought he should go over to her and say hello. He though maybe he should cry at her knees, God knows he wanted to. He thought he should beg for her back. No, he had not gotten off the brandy, but that's only because she left. He would though. Oh God, he would. Just as John Carpenter had worked up enough courage to cross the street and talk to Mary Stein, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair, a man emerged from the building and grasped her arm. And she huddled close to him and looked up at him in a trusting, loving way. The way she used to him. Not the way John's mother did his stepfather. Not the way Mary did the last time she looked at him. The strode, Mary and the Man, arm in arm up the sidewalk. Into a taxi, that sped away, up the street and away from John. Oh God, how he would quit the brandy.
0
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair.
Walking down main street, not worried about the rain, was John Carpenter. Sure, he had on his hat and coat, but he had not remembered to grab his umbrella. Luckily his sister had not been with him or else she would have had a fit. She was always talking about how he needed to bundle up more, he only got pneumonia twice  year, and seemed to always have a cold. He didn't mind though. More often then not, a nice hot cup of coco, or brandy would clear his sinuses and he'd be fine. Today he did not have a cold and today he was walking down mainstream, letting the rain fall gently upon his face and shoulders. He passed the bar he so often frequented in his younger years, and saw a familiar face across the not so busy main street. He stopped then, rather suddenly, and slumped agaisnt the wall. My, it had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had talked to her. Looking across the street, through light traffic and light rains he remembered the other times he had looked upon her face. He remembered the last time he had done so while seeing her. They had woken up in bed, him before her as was usual. They had woken up to kisses and squeezes and the smell of cigarettes and brandy and parchment. Looking across the street he remembered everything about her, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair. He remembered the way she squeezed him tight, tighter than any other girl. He remembered the way she laughed after they kissed and he remembered how it had ended. A shameful night in March, two years ago. Drunkingly, he laid his hand upon her. Not in the nice way, but in the way his step father used to unto him. He did it because she would not go to the store to pick up more brandy. That is why he hit her. It was not the first time, though. The first time he had been drunk as well and it had been because she talked back to him, the way he would to his step father. Now, you must understand, she gave him a second chance. She swore that if he were to every lay a hand on her ever again she would be gone. He swore to her that he would never again do so. He would lay off the brandy and he would be the man he should be. The man his real father was, before he died. He would be a husband and a lover and a healer and a man. He promised these things. Then, two months later, he hit her again. This was the last time. She followed through on her promise and he did not see her until that moment, right then, as he looked across the street. He thought he should go over to her and say hello. He though maybe he should cry at her knees, God knows he wanted to. He thought he should beg for her back. No, he had not gotten off the brandy, but that's only because she left. He would though. Oh God, he would. Just as John Carpenter had worked up enough courage to cross the street and talk to Mary Stein, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair, a man emerged from the building and grasped her arm. And she huddled close to him and looked up at him in a trusting, loving way. The way she used to him. Not the way John's mother did his stepfather. Not the way Mary did the last time she looked at him. The strode, Mary and the Man, arm in arm up the sidewalk. Into a taxi, that sped away, up the street and away from John. Oh God, how he would quit the brandy.
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I was diagnosed with double-pneumonia on the 15th and classes started on the 17th. I’m already getting nagmail about assignments, yea! I’ll be behind and virtual for a while. It started as a rhinovirus, honestly, I don’t even remember being around a rhinoceros, but he trampled me good. (Hmm, song title there?) I’m feeling better today, I can read without the room spinning - heck, I even managed to write this, but a new, implacable nemesis - low-energy - is here, like Lebron James, to check me when I attempt something over ambitious, like picking up my chemistry book. At least I got to stay in my room. My roommate Sunny’s so angry with a certain girl that she even thinks it’s hilarious. Her creative, revenge beast has been awakened and her feelings are practically colors in the air. It’s entertaining. I think if she saw her now - well, let's say Sunny takes boxing in the gym every morning. “I’m over her already,” Sunny announces, stomping around her room, trashing all reminders on contact. Be careful out there, people - if love doesn’t get you the rhino might. . . nagmail - mail about late assignments, class papers due, surveys
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Jan 19, 2023
Jan 19, 2023 at 11:19 AM UTC
double trouble
Finally a body lay restless fighting against all the odds. Lying immobile in a bed of thorns and pains for four decades so long. Where she should have been And where did she reached today. Once she was blessed with beauty and intelligence. Blessed with a beautiful life to live upon. Could she live that beautiful life, as it should have been? Helplessly she watched, when cruelty gripped her from all the sides, which never gave even a chance to rise up, Even though a new day began. How many dreams she may have had? She fought the pain till she breathed her last. She lay motionless in a bed of shattered dreams, With a pillow of bed ridden thoughts and tears. Lying in a bed around decades of four Hardly she may be two and half decades born For years she lay crippled and helpless fully dependent on others. Indeed some blessings was there with her Thankful to the people who stood for her, who loved her, Took great care of her and travelled along with her till her end. A fateful day took away all her dreams and twisted her life so cruelly. From there her life hanged in between if and not, till she breathed her last. Tears do we shed but also feel relieved, Finally a soul was freed from all the prolonged pains and grief. Till the last moment she fought bravely against all her pains before sinking eyes to death! May Her Soul Rest In Peace! Hats off to all the nurses who went on adding Drops of priceless contribution each day as a part of their dedication to humanity. In what better they could have shown! PEACE! All rights reserved by Geetha Jayakumar. Note: (Courtesy: Google) Aruna Shanbaug an Indian nurse, then aged 24years, from Karnataka, died after living in vegetative state for more than 42 years. She worked as a nurse at the King Edward Memorial Hospital (KEM) Mumbai. At the time of attack she was engaged to a doctor at the same hospital. On night of 27th November 1973, Sohanlal Walmiki, a sweeper at the same hospital, sexually assaulted Shanbaug. He attacked her while she was changing clothes in hospital basement. He choked her with dog chain and sodomized her. She was discovered with blood splattered only at next morning. Since then she lay in a vegetative state. Nurses from KEM hospital took entire care of her till her death in the same hospital. She was born on 1st June 1948. Finally she died from pneumonia on 18th May 2015 at the age of 66.
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May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
Life In Comma! - A Painful Tribute To Aruna Shanbaug!
Finally a body lay restless fighting against all the odds. Lying immobile in a bed of thorns and pains for four decades so long. Where she should have been And where did she reached today. Once she was blessed with beauty and intelligence. Blessed with a beautiful life to live upon. Could she live that beautiful life, as it should have been? Helplessly she watched, when cruelty gripped her from all the sides, which never gave even a chance to rise up, Even though a new day began. How many dreams she may have had? She fought the pain till she breathed her last. She lay motionless in a bed of shattered dreams, With a pillow of bed ridden thoughts and tears. Lying in a bed around decades of four Hardly she may be two and half decades born For years she lay crippled and helpless fully dependent on others. Indeed some blessings was there with her Thankful to the people who stood for her, who loved her, Took great care of her and travelled along with her till her end. A fateful day took away all her dreams and twisted her life so cruelly. From there her life hanged in between if and not, till she breathed her last. Tears do we shed but also feel relieved, Finally a soul was freed from all the prolonged pains and grief. Till the last moment she fought bravely against all her pains before sinking eyes to death! May Her Soul Rest In Peace! Hats off to all the nurses who went on adding Drops of priceless contribution each day as a part of their dedication to humanity. In what better they could have shown! PEACE! All rights reserved by Geetha Jayakumar. Note: (Courtesy: Google) Aruna Shanbaug an Indian nurse, then aged 24years, from Karnataka, died after living in vegetative state for more than 42 years. She worked as a nurse at the King Edward Memorial Hospital (KEM) Mumbai. At the time of attack she was engaged to a doctor at the same hospital. On night of 27th November 1973, Sohanlal Walmiki, a sweeper at the same hospital, sexually assaulted Shanbaug. He attacked her while she was changing clothes in hospital basement. He choked her with dog chain and sodomized her. She was discovered with blood splattered only at next morning. Since then she lay in a vegetative state. Nurses from KEM hospital took entire care of her till her death in the same hospital. She was born on 1st June 1948. Finally she died from pneumonia on 18th May 2015 at the age of 66.
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