Arthritis

Pain eats into me like acid, sapping me of everything.
I cannot think. I cannot write. I lay down on a chair,
And rub my hip, and fall asleep again. I'll rise in time
To walk and wince, and then I'll find another seat.
The codeine's done nothing for me. The pain remains,
And I'm exhausted. I'm not sure what I should do.
I have no use for consciousness, for art. Despite
The metaphors, the sand ingested hasn't made a pearl.
All it's done is grind away at joints in parts of me,
Producing not one word of poesy,
Only anguished cries.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 56 times
Written on 2017-12-10 at 01:42

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