Please pray for me. beign sick is horrible. it means i can't do so many things. i'm just at home. lying down. coughing sporadically. God have mercy, please. sigh. i hate being sick
come on. wake me up/
Wrote a poem.

SICK

Superstitious serpents love wringing
themselves round walls
i lie in my bed, a huff, alas, a puff.
To raise high heavens from their peaceful slumber,
To purge the phoenix from its fiery temple.
no, just to breathe another breath
ah, it'll be fine.

pasty-white ceilings and clobbering fans
and friends calling to ask me if everything were fine.
The bed entices the body for a-nesting
till you wake up
and feel the pain.
ah, dreams still bring shelter from rain.

looking out
upon the sunny skies
and people laughing and talking on buses, and in streets,
they call it, 'feeling fine'.
wish i could go. if i could just leave here.

but fate never stays
but tempts the palate.

back here, still lingers echoes of calm and peace
amidst the waves of ache.
the trees have shed their old fruit, waiting for new flowers;
and i am visibly anticipating change
to better understandings. to better meanings.

when the torture of your mind has waned
with the appearance of new, immediate realities
all you hope for is to get out of this
and once you breath the air and find
the chirpings of the crows delectable
then, ah, how wonderful it is to be alive.

-shawn poon 3/10/03