Pain Killer Poetry
Payatas Dumpsite: The Poetry of Poverty
Remember The Poetry of Palestine
Gist of Kabir Sahab’s Poetry
Killer Exams
I love to play sports; I’ve played American football, soccer, baseball, tennis, basketball, etc. I’m not the best sportsman; in fact I don’t look very athletic at all. Yes I’m one of those genetically altered chimera that above the waist looks like a refrigerator and below the waist has chicken legs.
I know you can imagine what I look like with that description, now see me face to face on a field or court and you would probably laugh your socks off. This is to my advantage, you see I play as if I where actually being paid to do it. I play hard and intense.
Sometimes I go a little over board with the intensity and end up hurting myself. Cuts and bruises are nothing new to me, something I take a lot of pride in, showing off the stitches, scars and egg plant sized and coloured bruises.
But one thing Ill never be able to cope with is pain. In fact last night I sliced my hand open playing football for my schools team and ended up at the ER having to get 5 multicoloured stitches sewed in to the palm of my hand. But the pain was extreme, so I headed to the pharmacy for some pain killers later on that evening.
Today I woke up in a good mood and looked directly at my hand, it made me get to thinking and writing, and I played with a few words until I came up with something to my liking:
“They say pain is a natural thing, but I can´t get to sleep with all of this aching”.
“I grab my wallet and hop in to my car, off to a pharmacy that’s not to far”
“As soon as I walk through the door my heart starts to race, get ready pain; the Exterminator is here and he wants to meet you face to face!”
“I stumble on to the pain killer section and proceed to work my plan to perfection”
“Vicodin, OxyContin, Percocet; oh my basket begins to fill! Only the gods know why these wonderful things couldn’t be in only one pill”.
“As I walk over to the cash register I can’t help but to worry about the bill, as soon as I open my wallet depression comes over me, that 50 was really a 20. Oh screw it; just pass me a box of Advil".
