Hello all – hope you’re well and have had a lovely weekend. The majority of my weekend has been spent with a skull-splitting headache which resulted in me (1) waking early this morning which in itself is a travesty and (2) throwing up my coffee which is the definition of travesty in my opinion.
I’m of the opinion that the vomiting is due to the headache and am not about to entertain the thought that this is some rogue bug I’ve picked up from somewhere. The problem being is that I hate throwing up. I’m quite bad at it. It’s almost as if I’m fighting it – probably because I hate the thought of wasting food or coffee. I end up with blood-shot eyes and broken capillaries covering my face so for days after I look like a long-term alcoholic which is ironic given I’m a non-drinker.
Poor Mr Thomas was dispatched to the chemist to get me something, anything, to leave my stomach bile where it belongs but unfortunately, the medications required to keep me as a semi-functioning human being prevented the chemist from handing over anything that would soothe my symptoms. Ginger beer was the only thing offered, which in my opinion is a paradox, given the taste of it is enough to make anyone vomit.
Still, I’ve managed to keep down some toast since then, although the headache remains. Yes, I want your pity.
In the mean time, I thought I’d share another poem with you and no, it has nothing to do with my current situation.
Hope you are all well and a special thanks to all of those who have commented/liked and followed my blog over the weekend.
I am a bitter Queen
I do not stand in judgement,
Nor do I criticise thee.
Yet I feel an undeniable bitter resentment for me.
I wear tasseled gowns
To hide myself,
So that I may be glanced over and
Not be seen. I fail.
I command respect but give none in
Return, and I allow flowered memories
To pass by me from the sea.
I wish not be Queen.
Yet as I walk in quiet step
With my head hung so low that
I follow each footstep from behind
I am reminded that it is me,
Not you, that I see.
And what I see is a misery.
It is poor, it is white.
It is blank of every other colour
Because I cannot derive any hope
From my depths. I am alone, and apart
From my soldiers. My hair has greyed.
Despite this you stand, proud and heavy
Waiting for me.
© Giorge Thomas