Van Gogh

I used to wonder why you tried to cut your ear off.
Now that I have been infected for eight weeks, I know.
It starts as an ache, spreads to an itch, shuts your canal.
And that, my friend, is just the beginning of the show.

If it was just the hearing loss, or the bright red burn,
or the gooey ick, or the overwhelming fulness,
or even two of these foes conjoined in impishness
That would be one thing. But it's more than that, isn't it. 

It's the feeling that you've been dragged through the mud for miles
day after day, neverending grinding of life's stones
A slow, seemingly endless slog, framed by fitful sleep
episodic bursts so brief you think you dreamed them up.

So, Vincent (hope you don't mind the informality)
I'm here to tell you: I know. I care. I sympathize!
I dream of microscopes attached to tiny vacuums
The suction so sweet, the relief so complete...oh, rapture!

From the painting, I can see you tried to bandage yours.
I'm trying an alternate treatment method: so far
I s'pose it's an improvement, but just can't "git 'er done."
Waiting for the ick to end is proving very hard.