The Sickness

To wake up without a voice is a sickness of depression.

A sore throat of oppression.

A headache of silence. The drilling; the pounding.

A stomachache, the acid of unhappiness killing your insides; the depth of your very soul.

Regurgitation. The vomit of life’s textbook leaving you. Out of your body and into the world.

Recovery

Digestion. Absorbing the textbook and letting it leave your body in a not so pleasant way.

Forget regurgitation. You’re trying to find a voice.

Your voice.

This sickness – it’s dying.

The sore throat – it’s healing.

The headache – what headache?

And so on. I’m better. You’re better. We’re better.

The sickness is dead.

To wake up without a voice is truly a sickness.

But to gain that voice back… it’s chicken soup for our minds, our psyche…

Our soul.

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A/N: I don’t know if this made much sense. But I guess if it did, then yay. This is my first poem that I've actually felt the least bit confident enough about to post. Feedback?