Poetry 101..or worst.

LIVING LIKE A CRIPPLE

Today I wake up in pain,

thinking there is not much to gain.

Fever, fever, fever,

it´s worst than hearing Justin Beaver.

My stomach is swirling around,

and this doesn´t make me too fond.

I don´t want to go,

but the family tells me that is what I have to do

so there is nothing I can do.
First phone talk with the medic and he tells me that there is probably some stomach infection,

I´m not looking for perfection in my recovery to a new incarnation.

So fuck am I tired and sometimes I want to retire,

But not again to the hospital…

There is no option, that is the nature of having pancreatitis,

I don´t want to go back, I just want to see some tittis.

So screw me again,

although if there is no pain there is no gain.

I´m off in an hour, in a bitter hour I´ll be re-entering the white structure

which is far away from a piece of sculpture, hospital the call it?

Fuck it. Don´t want to watch it.

Waste of time since  I wont be able to blog  or read others,

which is something that gives me the angers. Angers? what fucking poem.

Off I go to the hospital, like an rare animal, to be studied. Hope there is no infection,

or I´ll probably get pissed off and knock the shit of some doctors perfection.