What does God want from me?
He's taken away the strength I once possessed
That resided in my bones, mind and spirit
With a blood clot of a bullet to the heart,
Figuratively-speaking.
The size twenty-seven trousers I used to wear
Have shrunk by a few sizes too small
And my eyes were on their way to becoming tiny slits
Peeking out from the flabbiness of a bloated face,
Pessimistically-speaking.
The nine-to-five job I used to have
Has slipped two months away from my grasp
And the longer I take to get my strength back
The further away slips the financial stability it represents,
Realistically-speaking.
The cancer sticks I used to smoke
No longer blacken my lungs
Nor do they stimulate my brain cells any more either
But better a sluggish mind than poisoned lungs I suppose,
Medically-speaking.
