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Poem

My pain level is an eight on a scale of one to ten.
Poor you, someone says. Someone who has no idea
That I have been running on pain levels of ten for three weeks.
An eight is terrific; great, something to strive for tomorrow.

Shingles has taken me hostage, inside my own house.
My body is her host, my mind wondering what I have done
in this lifetime or any other that was so bad that I deserve
a punishment like this. 

I finally figured out today if I am sitting on a cold pack,
my pain level goes down to an eight. It took me two E.R.
visits, four days in a hospital and trying everything I could
fathom I could stand before I stumbled upon this wondrous idea today.

My skin is so hyper-sensitive that a horse fly landed on my 
arm today and it felt like a honeybee digging a stinger into me.
The morphine pain pills did not cut it, so I got something else.
I hate to tell you, but they are not as effective as the morphine pills.

I have never in my life felt this level of pain.
I know there is a reason but I have no idea what it is.
I hope that I have suffered enough for all of my family and 
All of my friends because I have suffered enough for every one of you.

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