A poem about my illnesses
In the heart of Oklahoma, under vast and open skies, Emeth Lee Bard, known as The Matador, sighs. A car wash king, with suds and spray, Yet in his soul, a turmoil lay. For amidst the gleam on chrome and glass, A deeper pain, unseen, alas. Gastro woes that twist and churn, A fiery dance, with no return. And then the itch, that relentless prickle, At his feet, a bizarre riddle. A condition unnamed, a silent thief, Stealing peace, granting no relief. But through the spray, the foam, the rinse, He searches for a hint, a glint. Of understanding, a path, a way, To make sense of the night and day. "Is life but a car wash, endless, spinning, A cycle of beginning and thinning?" He ponders deep, this Matador, With every car, he seeks for more. Yet in his verse, a vent, a release, Finding solace, a sort of peace. For every pain, every itch, every ache, He crafts a poem, for his own sake. So here's to Emeth, The Matador bold, With stories in verse, yet untold. In Oklahoma, with a ca...