Sick Poem

Turned my sickness into something "productive"

My head, pumped with helium,

Has floated to another world.

 

A world where snot-filled mountains

Hover my bed.

 

Skin burning like fire,

Bones frozen to ice,

 

My bed sheet is caught in the war

Between my bipolar body temperature.

 

This bed, now a coffin,

Is where I spend my days coughing

 

Searching for pins

To pop the balloons in my ears,

 

And for my tongue

That once knew how to taste.

 

Body is frail,

Like a baby deer learning to stand.

 

Too full to eat,

Too hungry to move.

 

Vapor rub, tea, cough drops and aspirin.

Orange juice, tissues, antibiotics and vitamins.

 

May they help this hot air balloon

Lose its gas

 

To get me out of bed

And start moving my a*s.