Sick

I am sick. And there is no answer yet to my prayers.

My lungs cry out every minute while my back strains to support the breaths I take.

Chest pain causes my fingers to claw at the breast where my heart tries to burst out of its seams.

Aches appear in my head when my body can no longer take the stress.

Fatigue falls fast over my frame as I falter a little more everyday.

Sleep is the only reprieve I feel from pain.

"Medical mystery" is my new title. Yet still forced to be strong for others. I am heavily relied on.

This is less of a poem, and more of a PSA.

When you read this, know I am still somewhat oKAY.