Tonsillitis
Winters here, the cold sets in, I’ve not often felt this rough.
I’m sweating buckets,
seeing things, I guess this is when it’s tough.
Can’t walk no more I
need some help, I’m worried I might
die.
But no-one comes to offer help as London passes by.
My throat is swollen, I’m hot then cold, I don’t know what to do.
So I make my way over the bridge, to St Thomas’s hospital in Waterloo.
With my fake name and date of birth, that I use yet once more.
I don’t have a national
insurance number, but it’s OK I’ve been here
before.
So I wait to see, the triage nurse, to help me somehow get some care.
There’s a three hour
queue, someone asleep in the loo, and an old man curled up on a chair.
I just want to close my eyes now, and stop feeling this hard shooting
pain.
But I know that I’ve got to try and stay awake, in case the nurse calls out my name.
The hundredth time I’ve heard the door swing open, but this time to my surprise,
I then hear the nurse calling out my fake name, as I wake up and open my
eyes.
I pick up my rucksack and get off my chair, and reply to the nurse “hey that’s me”,
I’m relieved I’ll get help, because I can’t live like this, and I don’t know where else I would be.
“Your glands are all
swollen and your temperatures high, its tonsillitis” she says.
“Just get some rest
and drink plenty of fluids, over the next six or so days.”
“I’ve nowhere to go I live on the streets” I say in reply with a puff.
She gives me a flyer with a Shelterline number, that she gives to all
those sleeping rough.
Sometimes I would phone and find a bed for the night, until the next day
the time came,
When they said “let’s go, to the
jobcentre place, to fill out your benefit claim.
So once yet again I make an excuse, and find a way to disappear.
I’ll walk down the
roads until I’m back in West end,
because I’m scared the old
bill find me here.
I know that as long as I keep my neck warm, and make sure that I don’t get froze,
That I’ll be alright and I’ll heal through the night, I’ll keep covered from my head to my toes.
So I make my cocoon back at Tokyo Joes, and I just hope no-one moves me
on.
But they’re used to me now
and they let me stay more, cuz I make sure it’s clean when I’m gone.
I’ll drink plenty of
liquids and maybe some whisky, because I was told that it warms your inside,
After just a few days I’m out of the haze, and my swollen necks now not as wide.
I’m back to myself I’m glad that it’s nearly gone, felt like I was dying but now I’m alive,
Still not a hundred percent, but at least I’m not dead, and I’m just glad that I’ll survive.
Poetry written by Ben Westwood, Musician and poet. UK
Copyright Ben Westwood.
To view all fourteen published current poems from this project click here.
Follow the true story of a young teenager
running away from home and the state, in a premature search for independence. In
poetry.
Making choices that often only a young mind would make, Ben tells his story and memories of being in the social services system from eleven years old, as well as 1990’s London street life, as a missing runaway sleeping rough.
From angels, predators, shocking times to heart-warming moments, Musician and now debut author Ben Westwood gives an insight into the mind of a rebellious-spirited youngster trying to find his own way in the world.
To order a signed colour copy you can order via paypal below.
The price is £18.99 including postage and packaging
Making choices that often only a young mind would make, Ben tells his story and memories of being in the social services system from eleven years old, as well as 1990’s London street life, as a missing runaway sleeping rough.
From angels, predators, shocking times to heart-warming moments, Musician and now debut author Ben Westwood gives an insight into the mind of a rebellious-spirited youngster trying to find his own way in the world.
To order a signed colour copy you can order via paypal below.
The price is £18.99 including postage and packaging
