IllnessA Poem by AndreaSuffering from an illness.
A painful procedure to
discover the disease is still spreading. So you are prescribed a few more pills to pop daily but that doesn't stop the pain. You wake up every morning and cough up a little more blood. You paint the sink red with your agony. And your body disappears a few more pounds each week until nothing is left but your illness. © 2012 AndreaAuthor's Note
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1 Review Added on February 2, 2012 Last Updated on February 2, 2012 Author
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