I am wounded,
and I am weak,
and I am hungry.
But I feel a fire raging
inside of
me.
I am angry.
I am angry.
I spit contemptuously
on grounds that
used to be
holy to me.
And I hurl insults
at everybody
around me.
Constantly.
Constantly.
I let them know
what
I think of them,
as
they try so desperately,
to
accommodate my every need,
to speed up my recovery.
And I lie,
lazily,
stubbornly,
on my
back,
recuperating
from my latest heart-attack,
slowly,
defiantly.
Defiantly.