So i used donating blood as my arts at baruch. I wrote this poem that chronicles my experience. I think it’s not a good poem at all and yes it is true.
“Drifting”
Silence fills the room.
The beeping of the machines begins to permeate,
taking over the silence.
Fluorescent lighting filling and flickering.
“Next,” says the technician breaking the silence.
The sound drawing me in.
I sit. My arm enveloped.
The cold needle, like an icicle, rushes into my veins.
Frigid.
My hand clenches the grip.
My motions are methodical.
Squeeze. Release. Repeat
My lids become heavy,
I pry them open trying to combat lethargy
but it’s up against a stronger demon: cataplexy.
My body tries to remain catatonic
But its attempts
Useless.
My body shakes.
My lids gain weight.
They begin to close and
I
Drift
Away.
Minutes like hours.
My eyes slowly open to see the fluorescent lighting.
The beeping fills the room.
The ice pack behind my head sends chills down my spine.
Color rushes to my face and I just lie there.
I get up and my body feels weightless but my arm like a brick,
As if it carries the weight of my body.
No longer adrift.
My consciousness hits the shore to be greeted by an endless amount of cookies.
You’re wrong… it is a good poem!