Poem: Being Ill

I cough, and cough again, and cough twice more.
I try to stop, and fail. I drink more tea,
And yet, I cough still more. My throat? Still sore,
And worse, the coughs still come to torment me.

I sit and read, and hope distraction cures.
I sit and read, I sit and cough and read,
And curse the rebel cough which still endures
And curse again; the coughing takes no heed.

I cough twice more, and moan of wretched luck;
I cough again, and wish my cough would die
And let me be. Instead, the cold has stuck,
And neither tea nor pluck will make it fly.

I have to wait it out, like storms at sea,
And let the waves subside and set me free.

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I seem to be in sonnet-writing mode. This is odd, especially since my natural meter is iambic tetrameter.

Ah, well. It seems to be turning out alright.