Pen power

Does your pen remember who you were yesterday? Is it prepared for who you are today? My pen doesn't know what it's fighting for, the truth just pours out until the ink runs dry. My pen is the hypodermic needle, the ink my perfect poison. I spit it out for you to drink from my cup.
Throw it up from the diseased brain in my guts. What comes from the tip of this ballpoint today will be of no help to anyone. You know when you have to scribble a pen back and forth on paper sometimes to get the ink to flow? I am somewhere in between the writing and the pen tapping.
As I fight to live well, in both mind and body, my body and mind fight to die. Fighting to die, can you grasp that concept? A chronic diagnosis leaves me wanting to live but how can you live when the insurance company is making you sicker quicker? Things were clearly going along to well, now they think I should die quicker. Like giving a raging alcoholic liquor. Like giving hard  candy to a baby that will choke on it. A rapist has more integrity than Insurance and Pharma. They control my health or lack thereof, the  big bastards trump my karma. I am never scared but now I am petrified. Scared of an insurance company that is to help ensure I live. Insurance ensures ants like myself have no chance of health. So, here I sit again with this blue pen of sadness. Sometimes it's all I can do just to keep up with my own madness.

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