Buried beneath
Your featherbed cover
Feeling so bad
You hope that you’ll smother
Everything aches
You can’t lift your head
You pray for relief
But just wish you were dead
Slinking to the bath
Nothing matters anymore
As you lay there vomiting
On that cold tile floor
You could easily perish
And you’d be thrilled
For it would end what feels
Like your head being drilled
With your eyes bugging out
You pray for mercy
But none of your friends
Offer murder as a courtesy
And you curse their names
For not offering a way out
While your body heaves
And purges another bout
And you decide if you make it
You’ll never speak to them again
Good thing for everyone
Death takes you in the end
© 2018 Michelle Cook
Jaunty, yet grim.
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Thanks! 😉
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This seems like a medicine!
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Yes, it is! Lol… 😉
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Your writing talent makes sickness sound like the non-stop joy that it’s not! Well done, but I’m sorry you are feeling poorly 😢
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Thanks Walt, writing this actually cheered me up. I crack myself up sometimes by what I write. Lol… 😉
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It cracks me up sometimes too! Especially when you start killing off characters, lol. 🙂 <2
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Lol… I’m so savage. 😋
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Indeed! Adorable! ☺❤
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Lol… 🙂
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Ha sick and writing?! Well get well soon. I m finally better, still seasonal hackadoodle…. Posted 2 today 🙂
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Yup, wrote this one in bed with the covers up over my head. Lol… Glad you’re feeling better. 😉
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Oh no! Feel better quickly. I’d be there if I was closer!!! ❤️
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It’s not that bad… it just inspired this poem which is good. At least I’m writing. 😉
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😝
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I’m actually sick today, but not THAT sick! 0.0
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Me too! Get better soon! 😉
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❤
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