There’s something about being
unable to do anything
because disease grips your body,
and all you can do is lie in bed
and feel insignificant that
a mere fever cough ache renders
you useless.
But that is dependent on how mere is defined
with every cough a breath is sacrificed,
insides ripped till
I’m left wishing that
if my breath was to be wrenched
from me
why not just cast it out
instead of these torturous methods
that with each painful breath,
as tears acclaim the pain, that I breathe one less
Staring sideways at the sky,
its brilliant colors reflects
what I aim to be, but as insignificant beings
why do we make everything so significant
it all seems so unnessary— and childish.