A Hypochondriac’s Grief
I've imagined my death hundreds of times
The pain in my side
The tickle in my throat
The yellow in my eyes
These are all signs
Of an end soon to come
Of a body on borrowed time
Of songs left unsung
The words held back at the tip of my tongue
Is the cancer coating the back of my throat
My racing heart rushing to it's conclusions
Is a heart attack with no antidote
Tell me your opinion and I'll say I'm the exception
Try as you will, but your words offer no security
That 1% chance, that's most certainly me
They are the rule and I'm the obscurity
It's certainty until it's not
Another peace of my mind stolen away
And how long until the doubt checks-in again to stay
Burrowing deep in my skin, the itch logic can't outweigh
The watchful eye of death won't let me rest
Whether I'm happy or filled with dread
It's there in my head asking to be fed
"Something's off," it says.
"What is it," I ask
"Something," it cries
And my body lies
Shape shifting to meet it's reply
My own demise is always on my mind
My own mind is my greatest affliction
What happens when these thoughts are no longer fiction
Will I feel vindication in my infliction?
Or will I cry for the millions of lives I've already lost
And mourn the nights left to ruin in my own thoughts
What I wouldn't give to live a life
Where I didn't grieve my own death each night