sorry state of my life

I slept my Saturday away.
my body, achy,  sore,
cranked and croaked,
laid bare on the operating table
yet again, brought low by a
barrage of pain and misdeeds.
A stitch in my side,
feeling like someone's inside,
punching and kicking through this
rib cage of mine,
feeling like my hearts about to burst
out of my chest,
instead of beating steady like
It should.
my promised poems and bills to pay,
yet again put aside for a more
poetic bill paying day.
awoke once near midday,
an unusual wake up call,
I scent this delicious smell,
when the honey odors of
cinnamon and vanilla invade
the edges of my subconscious.
I love three things
french toast,
bathed in vanilla and cinnamon,
feeling like I'm drugged
and fall back to sleep again.
as I drifted off for the third time yesterday,
angry at the world at large.
fed up, worn out and ready to give up.
I heard the woman in the next bed
dramatically say:
I WANT , I WANT
two words that from my past,
were consider a curse,
and dealt with severe punishment
a grave phrase of choice of my parents,
their way of saying I would never measure up.
never be good enough, never ever ever good enough.
the motto of my life.
must have fought back against the anger inside
cos I am still here
children relieved beyond measure,
as I once again drift off to a nightmarish sleep
vague recall a poem forming about the
sorry state of my life.