Anyone who has ever been in the hospital knows there is a tendency for you to feel exposed and vulnerable. Wearing some flimsy robe likely made of tissue paper and those tiny slipper things that cover approximately 1/3 of the bottom half of you foot, it’s hard not to really.

Happily I’ve not been forced into such scenarios with any frequency. There is another however, also in the quasi medical arena. A place where you sit in a tiny chair, surrounded by many others at far too close a distance. Sounds of coughing and sneezing, crying and lovely stories of horrific overshares. The absurdly bright white light piercing through your very eyelids. God help you, you’re waiting for your prescription at an extremely busy pharmacy.

Now granted this isn’t exactly a medieval torture dungeon but I’d almost prefer a spin on the rack over someone sneezing on me. I was writing a book centered on super-viruses at one time and am to this day petrified of microbial assassins. Hemorrhagic fevers are seriously uncool.

Never got around to giving a title. It was written earlier this week, April 24, 2018.

Encased in a mass frenetic

Draws out my dark side splenetic

Crowded comfort can never be

Retreating to the mind won’t free

Choke back escaping acid thoughts

One at a time restrained and caught

Little virtue can anger bring

To panic I refuse to cling

Deep breath in, hold, and then release

Manufacture one shred of peace.

For the record I called ahead to see if the prescription was ready and they said yes. LIES!

Obviously I made the poem a tad more dramatic, just seemed more fun that way. I WAS  super grouchy that day though with a headache and hanging out with a bunch of sick people, several of whom seemed quite invested in communicating their life stories to me, didn’t especially help.

Point of order, yes, I am beyond blessed that this is what is considered as a hardship in my life. I try never to forget that.

Joy to the World!   (not the song, just the sentiment)

-Alex Blaikie

Categories: poetry writing

Tagged as: brief featured new original poem poet poetry writing

dreadpoetssobriety

A broken mind held together by cellophane and some tack.