“Sick Sonnet” (As described) Inside my head, some one is inflating A hot air balloon. Pressure is intense. I should not be perched here; no debating About what’s next. I feel too wiped out. Hence, This poem will be quick, plain and artless. I’ll get it done, my self-promise to meet. And then I’ll pad my head with warm compress, And try to get comfy between the sheets. Don’t feel like eating; lost my appetite. Tea and skyr is all I could ingest this Morn. Apparently, I am in a fight. Much of my plans for today will be missed. So toodle-oo to all of you for now. I’ll write more as I muddle through somehow. © Verse-Case Scenario, LLC 2015 ------ Nothing else to say. Have a good day.
Posted on: Tue, 06 Jan 2015 15:32:54 +0000
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