Sick-shivers and incredulous waves
swallowed down and in or rejected
up and out, the real, me, really,
really? I don't quite believe it.
Poetry is difficult, how on earth. It is the art of language? I will look it up. I sneezed and was nearly sick, the reflex pulling the hate out. I lay in bed and didn't close my eyes for an hour I'm sure, I can't even see, but I was making some pictures there in front, whizzing past. Pictures of confusion and digest. I knew it didn't I, I was hanging all week and I didn't know why. Some things you just don't expect.
Ugh the words are in this ball of sick but I don't want to sick it up as my tea was yet again yumdrops. Oh have I left my punctuation on her table again? Perhaps next to my clue?