Sick
I'm not aloud to get sick.
It's against the law.
It's against my religion.
A job that depends on me being their.
A survival of my current affair.
Feed some rice to a pigeon.
Faking a feeling of awe.
I feel like I have been hit in the head with a club like stick.
A headache that can't exist.
Lungs that should be breathing clearly.
And a stomach that should be able swallow anything.
A boss getting pissed.
A job I care about dearly.
And all else that's missing.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Added by Poetry Lover
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