Illness.

The pulse is throbbing through my head.
The world around me, spinning.
Why, when I lay in bed,
Is death the one that's winning?

The tears drip from my bleeding lips.
The blood I taste is new.
More tears form, as I feel those drips.
I would wish this upon few.

I lay my head and feel the ache
Moving swiftly through me.
Refusing me, was their mistake.
Why will no one help me?