Illness

Nausea swells up, like a balloon
No doctor can cure my illness

Only the titanic pines, reaching from above
The satisfying crunch of firm pine needles
Beneath my bare feet
A warm breeze wafting pleasant smells by my face

Only the crashing waves thundering to shore
A symphony of birds, calling down from above
The stars shining bright, guiding me back
The cold pine needles beneath my bare feet

There is no medicine for it,
No cure for homesickness,
Only the pine needles beneath my feet

This poem makes me...
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