Sick Daze

A lot of people have sick days.

Others judge them as being lazy and uncaring.

But you have to be really sick to lay in bed every day because getting up seems too difficult to handle.

You have to be really sick to avoid any human contact for weeks on end.

You have to be really sick to have avalanches of food wrappers piled up on the floor that you've thrown out of bed.

You have to be really sick if you can't remember when you last changed your sheets.

Or your shirt.

Or your mind.

You have to be really sick not to drink water for days because you'd have to leave your room to do it.

You have to be really sick to force yourself to vomit to avoid another day in crowded halls.

You have to be really sick of getting even more sick.

And you don't want to be sick.

So you stay home, to try and heal from those things that infect your mind so entirely that you can no longer think.

You lie in bed, hearing speeches about responsibility that you've heard a thousand times over.

But you can't really pay attention, because you're stuck.

Stuck in a sick daze.

This poem is about: 
Me

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