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 car wash as his stage,

He battles life, page by page.