The name of this poem is…
There isn’t one
Because the name is plastered across my forehead
Always being labeled one thing,
When you’re really something else,

Always afraid of telling people you’re sick
Because of the way people change
After they find out your sick
And when one of the former presidents said
“We have nothing to fear, but fear it’s self.”
Was of course,
The understatement of the year.
As of the word sick
But of course,
Even though you’re trying to get better,
You just can’t
You seem to be getting worse
Never feeling quite up to anything,
Always tired, but
Never being able to stop
Doing what you love to do..
Run, and play soccer
Ha, ha
Just wait for it though your time will come
When you have to face death against
All odds, whether you live or die in the end.
You may be a face with no name, or the person with the title plastered on your forehead
But you, to me, and me to you
Will always be my angel, and
The one I go to in the end.
Against all odds, and against life or death
You will always be the one I turn to in the end.