The sick kid
You won't know my world, a blurry place,
Never knowing why, at this slow pace.
A sickness lives in me, but has no name,
A quiet fire, causing endless pain.
In white rooms, then out, a turning door,
"It will get better," they say, but I just hurt more.
A whispered promise, thin and light,
As days go on, I worsen through the night.
My family laughs, the sun is warm and bright,
But every trip, I hold a hidden fight.
While others play, I feel so small and weak,
On holidays, my body starts to creak.
That deathbed feeling, when we should be glad,
Just sick and broken, feeling truly sad.
Can't walk, they rush me, sirens loud and clear,
A hospital bed, a week of silent fear.
They send me home, a small and hopeful sigh,
Then months go past, and worse again am I.
Back in those walls, with needles, lights, and dread,
The same old struggle, stuck inside my head.
A simple cold, a sniffle, tiny cough,
Becomes a battle, pushing me far off.
A little puke, just something in my gut,
Means IV poles and doctors, what a rut.
The pain I carry, deep inside my bones,
A heavy secret, whispered in soft groans.
You see my smile, but miss the hidden strife,
You'll never know this part of my young life.
This constant sickness, hard and always deep,
The silent burdens that a sick child keeps
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment