the race for a cure

my arm throbs like i've been
writing all day, like words
have been yelping onto
pages and pages. but lies;
my mind refuses the depths
of creativity these days,
flatlines into nothingness
when i turn off the oxygen
mask. i need some codeine
to resolve my aching brain.
i need the visine drip in my
eye socket, the ben gay rub
on my man candy slash fics,
the moisturizing lip gloss
stick on my parched lips.
medicate my illnesses,
treat the endless symptoms
of this disease, the influenza
of my poetic process –
i can't find the pills
in the medicine cabinet
on my own, doctor.