I fear every day that Sam Sciatica stands ready to pounce. In the morning, I cautiously slide from my bed hoping not raise his ire. If I do, I know he will punish me by hammering a spike into my right buttock, causing scalding electric pain, striking into my thigh, streaking into my knee, piercing my calf causing hot flashing pain down my leg and into my brain.
When he strikes my only hope for cursory relief is to move to the floor, lie on my back, place my legs up on a chair, hope upon hope that in this position Sam's brutal hammering will slowly dissipate
Cortisone shots and therapeutic ritual are defenses that only temporarily fend Sam off. I have now become resigned to battling him, time after time, year after year.
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Writing Prompt |
Write a poem where an emotion is turned into a real person could it be Linda Lust or prince Terror can be funny scary sad anything you like have fun. |
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