Hypochondriasis

I already wrote my will.
Living in constant pain,
Sickness inside my brain.
The Death's icy Scythe... I feel.

I am prepared, but I feel this thrill.
My thoughts, I know, will remain,
While I die over and over again,
Ecchoing that painful sensation of chill.

Suffering with so many diseases.
The Death's blow freezes,
And then I see the light.

My chilled skin erupts.
The Scythe my life interupts.
I am so damn sick to fight.

V.