Head Cold

There is a vicious, ground-dwelling creature Burrowing into my skull, Maybe a mole, It doesn’t matter. What matters is My head is cracked and pillaged. Instead of gray matter, it’s full of snot And mucus; it’s crevices drip, And no matter how much I Expel from my nostrils, more will come. I hurt. The mucus has swelled my sinuses So bulbous and enlarged, they press Against my eyes and ears. I hate everything and everyone I see. Look how freely they talk and walk, Oblivious to my pain and their freedom. They take for granted their snotless brains. Their thoughts flow unhindered by mucus buildups, But mine inch and hitch and stop Altogether. Soon, I will transform from a creature Of bone and muscle To a gelatinous mass with skin and eyes And nothing else but slime. This cold has stolen my good mood from me. The world is a happy place, today, but I Have a cold, and I’m miserable. Whose idea was a cold, anyway? At least make me sick enough To stay at home. A cold does Not excuse, does not Incapacitate enough to warrant What I think it should. Even if I were at home, I’d still Be cranky and in pain. Being home fixes all maladies But this, it seems. Uggh. My throat is full of cactus and my Ears ring, my arms ache, my Nose leaks, and I curse the one Who bequeathed me with this Hell. May he step on Legos for the rest Of his days, may he never find love, May his ears forever refuse to pop, may He always be stuck at a red light, May all his waitresses be cranky, may His head sprout dandruff and his mouth Spit word vomit -and real vomit- on those he wants to impress, May he misplace his keys a thousand times, May he say everything he knows he’ll regret, May all his conquests be failures, May every book he reads be a cliffhanger, And may every cold that goes around Dwell with him far longer than usual.