Poetry: DARK, FAMILY, FEAR, HURT, PAINFUL, RHYME, and SAD.
The Man by Edward Matyja
He took a plethora of pills.
A provided, pompous, plethora of pills being popped every day without stop. Properly placing the provided, pompous, plethora of petite, purple pills into his palm, and then popping them down his throat. He does it blindly, hoping in some way it will take away the pain. Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn’t. Only he knows the truth. Who am I to speak for him?
Alone inside is his constant state of mind; sublime at times, but otherwise…dead. End of sentence, but not of his. Damned with this disease, more than just his fight, but his family’s too. If he could only get the goddamn courage to tell them. Only he knows the truth. Who am I to speak for him?
Eat, sleep, chemo was all he seemed to know…
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