So tell me doctor, what is making me feel this way?
The pain which keeps me awake at night
The agony in which makes me wander my dim lit room
The pressure which makes me think there might not be a tomorrow
The dull, defiant, dreadful pain.
So tell me, man of medicine, what can be done?
You take vials upon vials of my own life’s water
Life water which trickles when cut and tastes of salt
The very water with its movements helps me thrive, love and hate
The very water which gives my senses freedom to roam
So tell me, man with the paper framed on the wall, what is the diagnosis?
You poke and prod, delegating instructions to your following few
Causing more pain amongst what is already there and caring little, if at all
Please tell me so I can put in order, make provision; tell the ones who I hold dear
Well young man the diagnosis is clear:
Your white cells are soaring; colitis is causing an impediment
So I’ll be sending in a consult for a specialist to go into detail
They will contact you in a couple weeks
Frustrated yesterday, something is wrong on the inside and it is like pulling teeth to find answers.