My fun good morning poem:
Every spring I feel like i am dying
Every spring I feel like I am dying.
My eyes water and weep at the sight of fresh blossomy flower.
My throat catches at any time of day, and I can’t help but wheeze and whine.
I constantly need a tissue: for my frustration and frailty shine through in such a way.
I shrink from open windows.
I shriek at cut grass.
I steal away from the outside air.
I rail against the humming Gardner.
I rage against the immune bunch.
And I rage against the fowl pollen producers.
What? You thought I actually thought I was dying?
Good guess but thanks for trying.