A Hypochondriac’s Grief

I've imagined my death hundreds of times

The pain in my side

The tickle in my throat

The yellow in my eyes

These are all signs

Of an end soon to come

Of a body on borrowed time

Of songs left unsung

The words held back at the tip of my tongue

Is the cancer coating the back of my throat

My racing heart rushing to it's conclusions

Is a heart attack with no antidote

Tell me your opinion and I'll say I'm the exception

Try as you will, but your words offer no security

That 1% chance, that's most certainly me

They are the rule and I'm the obscurity

It's certainty until it's not

Another peace of my mind stolen away

And how long until the doubt checks-in again to stay

Burrowing deep in my skin, the itch logic can't outweigh

The watchful eye of death won't let me rest

Whether I'm happy or filled with dread

It's there in my head asking to be fed

"Something's off," it says.

"What is it," I ask

"Something," it cries

And my body lies

Shape shifting to meet it's reply

My own demise is always on my mind

My own mind is my greatest affliction

What happens when these thoughts are no longer fiction

Will I feel vindication in my infliction?

Or will I cry for the millions of lives I've already lost

And mourn the nights left to ruin in my own thoughts

What I wouldn't give to live a life

Where I didn't grieve my own death each night