This is what comes from my mind

Sickness

You lay in bed

Staring at the ceiling

You wheeze, cough, sneeze

You hate how there's so many lights

You hate the sharp objects

You hate the food

You just hate the hospital

People tell you "get well soon"

That's hard, because you know you're dying

You just don't want to tell them

You want to keep their hopes up

So they can just get shattered once you're dead

They'll remember you for months

But soon, as the years go by

They'll forget about you

You'll just be in the past

Because you died from just a sickness.