Sickness Poems
A letter to a sick child
by Dr. Robert Ippaso
There once was a little snail,
That wondered why It didn't have a proper tail,
She asked all those that passed her by
If there might be a rather simple reason why.
None proved to be that kind,
Which put her in an awful bind,
Until one fateful sunny day
She met a hare along the way.
My friend he said, looking awfully smug,
A tail Is something others often tug,
......
Fibromyalgia
by Julia Shaw
Fibromyalgia
Fibromyalgia is an illness that often besets
Women and men who can not help themselves
It's a syndrome that causes great pain and distress
It even causes its victims to feel overwhelmed
And cold damp weather only increases the chance
That muscles will cramp and increase the stress
And though one looks the same at a glance
......
The Sick Child
by Robert Louis Stevenson
CHILD.
O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!
O mother, mother, where am I now?
Why is the room so gaunt and great?
Why am I lying awake so late?
MOTHER.
Fear not at all: the night is still.
Nothing is here that means you ill -
Nothing but lamps the whole town through,
......
At the age of four
by Awwab ParachaAt the age of four, I saw perfection. I saw it in the crystal-like tears that ran like a river through my mother's soul. Reality cracked, within a shiny glass, creating reflections of my weak body. At the age of four, I was finally told, "You’ll never be perfect." But then, I realized that perfection is broken. It's fragile, it's weak, it's flawed, and it's beautiful. Tears became my rain. They became my joy. I spent days in hospital rooms while my mother's tears caressed my heart with their perfectly warm hands. Those tears fought with me, fought for me, lived for me, and died for me. At the age of 15, I saw perfection, again. I saw it in tears that broke out of the confines of hazel brown eyes and ran like a heavenly river of honey through the maple-sweet soul of a broken honeycomb. I saw perfection in a cracked looking glass. At last, another portal to the land of rainbows and diamond-white tears. Another girl, my girl. You should see the way she holds me. You should see the way she kisses me. You should see the way she loves me. You should see her. Because then, You would finally understand... that perfection is not perfect... It's more like a cracked diamond, a messy apple-pie, a fading rainbow, a giant spoonful of Nutella, a mother's tears, red petals that roses wear, the smell of freshly shampooed hair. A girl who talks to herself. A girl who talks to my heart. A girl who made me feel like I was four-years-old again. Earth's lucky charm. My baby girl. Lexi. I love you
Continue readingيومان قد مرا ولم - Poem by خل
by خليل السكاكيني
يومان قد مرا ولم
يدخل طعام في فمي
لا أستطيع أن اقوم
من شديد الألم
وليس من يسأل عما
حل بي من سقم
ولم يكن بين الجميع
من يُرى مكلّمي
وهكذا ظللت
بي ن سقم وسأم
......
A prisoner of illness
by Aditi Hayaran
Exhausted eyes staring at ceiling,
Not knowing words that can explain this feeling.
A healthy state, hard to maintain,
Will I ever be completely normal again?
Trying to ignore my inner turmoil,
Feeling under the weather for a while.
Frequent trips to hospital in a life full of pain,
Will I ever be completely normal again?
......
A letter to a sick child
by Dr. Robert Ippaso
There once was a little snail,
That wondered why It didn't have a proper tail,
She asked all those that passed her by
If there might be a rather simple reason why.
None proved to be that kind,
Which put her in an awful bind,
Until one fateful sunny day
She met a hare along the way.
My friend he said, looking awfully smug,
A tail Is something others often tug,
......
When we met
by Dave Newman
WHEN WE MET
----Flowed like the creek which babbled alongside.
WORDS
----Ricocheted like shrapnel around the nauseous confines of the skull I locked myself inside.
WHEN I FELL
----Swirled in the daze of a hued cloud like embers coughed from a campfire.
MY DREAMS
......
At the age of four
by Awwab ParachaAt the age of four, I saw perfection. I saw it in the crystal-like tears that ran like a river through my mother's soul. Reality cracked, within a shiny glass, creating reflections of my weak body. At the age of four, I was finally told, "You’ll never be perfect." But then, I realized that perfection is broken. It's fragile, it's weak, it's flawed, and it's beautiful. Tears became my rain. They became my joy. I spent days in hospital rooms while my mother's tears caressed my heart with their perfectly warm hands. Those tears fought with me, fought for me, lived for me, and died for me. At the age of 15, I saw perfection, again. I saw it in tears that broke out of the confines of hazel brown eyes and ran like a heavenly river of honey through the maple-sweet soul of a broken honeycomb. I saw perfection in a cracked looking glass. At last, another portal to the land of rainbows and diamond-white tears. Another girl, my girl. You should see the way she holds me. You should see the way she kisses me. You should see the way she loves me. You should see her. Because then, You would finally understand... that perfection is not perfect... It's more like a cracked diamond, a messy apple-pie, a fading rainbow, a giant spoonful of Nutella, a mother's tears, red petals that roses wear, the smell of freshly shampooed hair. A girl who talks to herself. A girl who talks to my heart. A girl who made me feel like I was four-years-old again. Earth's lucky charm. My baby girl. Lexi. I love you
Continue readingSilence
by Man MrytI vh.
Continue reading-
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Awwab Paracha (1 poems about Sickness)
Born in Pakistan but currently living in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. February 14, 2005