Too Sick

 

{Please take this poem for what it is.  I’m poking fun at those who feel sorry for themselves and in doing so, imagine they have conditions or symptoms when they are actually perfectly fine. This is not meant to be a list of my own symptoms, nor do I mean to say anything disparaging about people who genuinely suffer from health conditions.  Enjoy!}

 

The sands of time, they fill me up,

A boxy hourglass;

I feel the tingle of a stroke

(Let that sensation pass);

My pressure’s mounting high, today,

My sugar’s soaring higher;

I feel a quiver in my breast:

A crisis multiplier.

 

I know I have not long to live:

Commercials tell me so.

Near death, I’ve not enough to give:

My bank accounts are low.

Such perfect actors preface

Each split-second-shot of fat,

I feel depressed.  I’ll have no rest,

Till I measure up, to That.

 

A land of hypochondriacs:

We sickly swell with pride.

Your working hard and making do

Seem vices: vilified.

Beyond dispute, we’d work as hard,

If only we felt better:

Your  faulting our condition

Spells sedition, to the letter.

 

If only I felt well enough,

Just think, what I would do!

I’d climb the highest mountain.

I’d dive the deepest blue.

I’d raise my hand and volunteer.

I’d take my turn at bat…

 

But as it is, I’m far too sick.

No energy for that.

 

Copyright Andrea LeDew