| Sick |
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| Poem written by Andrew Rowell. | |
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Body is weak, Bones are all aching, Feeling so meek, No health for the taking. Pain. Pain to the highest extent. But not physically Is my energy spent. It’s the fact That I nearly reached your pride. It’s the fact That instead I fell down and died. The wrong didn’t show, The right was in scope, But again I chose poorly, And destroyed your hope. So because of my doing, I get to pay back. With all of my pain, And the health I now lack. Written as a confession to disobeying my father, and receiving my just reward of misery and guilt. |
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