personal battle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 20, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 20, 2017



I’m dying 
Sick of trying 
Who am I kidding
I’m lying  
I’m still fighting 
This thing that
grows inside of me 
This thing
nobody can see
But believe me
it grows and grows 
Destroying my cells
And who knows 
The pros 
And the cons 
The rights 
The wrongs 

And it hurts like hell 
As far as I can tell 
It’s here to stay 
But I’ll fight on 
With all my might 
I might me small 
But I pack a punch 
But first things first 
I need some lunch 
ah that’s better 

what’s with my new style? 
no trend setter 
but I’d call myself 
a go getter 
so I thought I’d
leave you this letter 
to be opened
upon my death 
and not before 
promise me this
I implore

So what’s the score 
Cancer one
Me nil
So if that’s the case why
do I screw up my face 
As a crimson toxin is injected 
Into my skin? 
Even though my chances
range from slim to dim 

So is it a sin? 
I’ll take it on the chin 
Even though I know 
Soon it will be my time to go 
But I wont let go 

Not without a fight 
A crimson liquid is my sword 
My immune system the shield 
Which I myself yield 

But it makes me sick
I don’t want to be sick 
I hate being sick 
And what’s with this wig 
I want my hair 
Please don’t stare 
It’s rather rude 
And feels unfair 
Why you mock and jeer 

So let me steer 
A little insight if I may 
To what I go through every day 
I puke and puke till my
throat is red and raw 
Then puke some more 
My throats now sore 

My hair 
What hair 
I wear a frigging wig 
So you may have a dig 
But I don’t care 
Your words don’t
even penetrate 
The outer layer
of my skin 
And it should because 
it’s paper thin 

I’m old and frail 
But still not ready
to bail on life 
Even though death
tries to sneak up behind 
But I’ve grown eyes
in the back of my head 
No way deaths
getting his grips on me 
He can sit and wait 
I’ll decide my own fate 
I’ll be late 
That’s my prerogative 
That’s right 
And mine alone 

And yes I may drone 
whinge and moan
on the phone 
But I’d rather
drone than groan 
It keeps me sane 
Keeps the pain at bay 
Well at least for an hour
if that’s ok? 

Am I supposed to stop,
sniff these flowers? 
I’ll do that when
I’m dead and gone 
But until then I’ll carry on 
Fighting this
demon inside 

© Copyright 2018 J A OVERTON. All rights reserved.