I think I might have just been 

born of a disease.

A disease where slowly my 

flesh peels away 

at the slightest remarks. 

Where my eyes become to full

and my heart become to weak

I think that is my disease.


Over time as life progress

my disease grows and flourishes


I can make it

I think 

but then again

Maybe I can't


My disease is becoming to real

to large

to ignore

It's sucking away 

what little life I have

Taking it from 

my hard fought war


My disease is the kind that 

doesn't have a cure.

No offered solution 


My disease is the kind 

that hurts and hurts and 

has no end


My chest starts to feel tight

and my body is weak

my breath comes up short 

and my eyes cant see


Water starts to come 

and trickle down my face

hands shake

lips quake

its all I can do 

to keep my mind at bay


My disease shouldn't own me

but I think its starting to.

My disease shouldn't define me

but it labels me loud and clear

I'm almost done with what time is left

And my disease and I 

O what a journey its been

I think our journey 

is almost at its end. 

This poem is about: 


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