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"Damn, do I really have to go? Do I?"
        That's my thought bubble, every time.

    I don't know what it is about hospital visits;
 Like many, if not all, I hate it like I do cockroaches.
         There's something dreadfully morbid
         About making these trips, even when
         I'm just picking up a prescription.
       I bet a hypochondriac feels differently

         On my way, my mind gets flooded with
    Disturbing imagery of folks bleeding and dying;
     Injection needle going into a vein in my arm.
      "Ouch!," you say. I know, right? I recoil
     At the phrase, "blood work." Call me chicken,
    But I'd rather recuperate at home, thank you!
  
    Going to the emergency room almost feels like
     I'm headed to the gallows, nope, no kidding!
          I sit morosely in the waiting area 
            For what seems like an eternity 
        Wondering why I came in the first place; 
       My inner child growing increasingly jumpy!

          Is it just me or does it always feel 
            Too long at the doctor's office? 
            He could be simply talking to me 
            About the weather and my anxious, 
                Impatient brain would be
                      In panic mode...

 "Are you softening me up for something, Doc? What ails me? 
 I'll be okay, right? Right!? Stop beating around the bush!"

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