Glib. Poem by Maxwell B Anderson

Hearing and dancing to
raindrops pelting my windows and roof
Then, screaming sirens wailing
too piercing to notice me taking a break
Call me on the telephone
to break the sickening dull.
Of course I could call you if I had your number
or some spare coin change.
But now I realise I am just dead.
Not Dead.
Just Sick from Pain.
I hate it.
I hate illness that anyone has.
Please try..
Cause I really am sick.
sick of Glib.