And there it was again.
Eight months without
and hope abundant,
his faith, which was
needless to say, things,
real things hoped for,
such as dreams
also necessities,
the foul essentials
of a life he had not wanted.

The bloody pain.
The hospital had seemed,
those years ago
indifferent, yes
because he did not have
a proper policy
nor dog-eared cash
to pay for tests
and 'management'.

No one could tell him
about the nature of
the menace that would come
a couple times a year
with a ferocity
that rivalled death itself.

So, in the end he did consult
the latest books on medicine,
for diagnosis and the lot,
it could be, so they said
diverticulitis, or polyps,
or some type of colitis,
such as Crohn's or IBS,
he also found that, in the end
it was too likely to deteriorate
and turn itself into malignancy,
as if you needed that,
Oh Modern Medicine, he chanted
give me your pills, and potions.
I'll swallow them for peace
and for a cure that does defy
the books and all the learnings,
I do not give a stuff at all.
Just take that friggin' pain away,
and I will pay you with my soul,
when all my money has run out
and crazy devils still persist
in sending missiles straight to me.

He hid the blood as it appeared,
and left no trace for her to find
inside the tub or anywhere,
it was his little secret only now,
the first and so essential
perhaps the gods would show
a bit of mercy.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-little-secret/