Lying within my hospital bed
starched and bleached in a blinding cocoon
I see the light that's chemical red
slashed from clouds that are morphia hewn

For how long can I keep on writing?
my fingers are fat and swollen sore
some days I wake, not needing fighting
wishing for death, thus suffer no more.

Naked in sweat and tubing clothing
I hold together with tape and pin
the needles fuel my own self-loathing
while a nurse wipes off my mental sin.

My breath is hot and smells of burning
my saliva thick and seasoned salt
the drugs are quick and so is learning
I must haste to write should reason halt...