The Chronic

Drowning in a crippling sensation of hell,

hoping for the toll of the bell,

for that means infinite rest…

If only.


The stabbing pain on the side,

desperately attempting to hide,

but to no luck…

At least for now.


Agonizingly unavoidable, BUT



Living in a world unknown to most.

Living in a world only known to the host.

Forever wavering between life and death,

hoping for that sweet relief,

that you know won’t come.


Unable to eat freely,

breathing with a hint of fear,

taking medicine that works rarely,

unlike the rest of you.


The majority of you sit on a throne,

a throne you were unaware of



you are quick to dismiss.


You dismiss those who cannot drink,

cannot eat,

for surely,

they are lying.


Little do you know,

they are the masters of the façade.


Consistently sitting on pins and needles.

Consistently plagued with burning.

Consistently writhed in agony,


no one seems to know.


It’s easier to hide the convulsing.

It’s easier to hide the disorientation,

for few seem to care…

whether they admit it or not,

few care about

The Chronic

because they hide

for your comfort.

This poem is about: 
My community


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