#optimistism

Sick

At this time of year with a chill in the air,

A virus can attack when you’re unaware.

It begins with an irritation in your throat,

And alters your voice so you can’t sing a note.

It blocks your nose and you can’t smell a thing,

No one is immune, not even a king.

Your eyes are watery and your body aches,

Sometimes you even get the shakes!

The tissues form a snow-capped hill,

As you eagerly wait until your next pill.

You have things to do but you just want to sit,

You want to move but your feet won’t permit.

But we cannot feel sad for this too shall pass,

The virus will be beaten and you’ll feel better fast!

And though it’s unpleasant and you feel bad,

We appreciate the good days and for that we are glad.

It’s time for you to rest and drink some hot tea,

And let your body heal and the virus will flee.

In no time at all, you’ll be back on your feet,

You’ll be healthy again and feeling upbeat!

I see his glare there, crystallized,

And with his sharp tongued malice says,

“Another day to waste away?”

I match his words intrepidly,

“I wake to songbird melodies

Whose pitch and cadence fill the air,

And save me from the dark nightmares”.

He quickly gathers his response,

“Now dreadful hours you’re to spend,

Denying every ounce of worth,

Reliving mistakes made since birth.”

I pause, think, then calmly reply,

“Experiences are never woes,

My past, much like a masterpiece,

Is woven still, on life’s fine fleece.”

Insulted by the optimist,

He gathers every heinous thought,

“And who would love you, imbecile?

No one in this world ever will!”

My ego, bruised, from such disdain,

Remembers to answer with hope,

“I’ve planted seeds deep down enough,

To know one day I’ll harvest love.”

Clinging from the thread of hate,

Flagitiously he iterates,

“This world has beauty, this is true,

But that does not encompass you.”

It was illogical, I deemed,

To combat a familiar stranger,

Though his approach was bellicose,

I gently answered via prose.

“You seek a dashing countenance?

I’d dare to say mine is quite fair,

From the crevice of my dimples,

To the curls found within my hair.”

As his invectives still pursued,

I kindly smiled and walked away,

For it’s a most-crippling infection,

"Wande tzale. Sheen gali. Beyi yi bahaar"

Winter will flee, snow will melt,

Again will spring make its presence felt