Hypochondriac

I pen my will
My will starts to give in
I lend no rhyme
I have no rhythm.
The clock watches me
And the watch clocks my time
It bills on my anxiety
It ticks me seizures
I have to get them removed.
Every passing day brings it closer
At day’s end, I can’t sleep
Nightmares of hourglass crashing
The sand is slipping through my hands
And I can’t hold it any longer.
Sinking into the quick sand.
People gathering to see me
Feels like a funeral
Their love feels like dying sympathy
Lost health, lost hope
I am to die.
KUTE GIRISH

by Dr. Girish Kute

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