This is based on "The Crickets Have Arthritis", which you can find on YouTube. I would suggest watching it, because there are some points in the poem that I may have missed.

I admit, I was an idiot when I was in my 20's.

Having been a goody-two-shoes during high school, I had decided that I would do remarkably stupid things right afterward.

No, I didn't go to college (much to my adoptive father's dismay). Too smart for my new dumb lifestyle.

Instead, I spent my days smoking. My addiction became kind of ridiculous. And by night, I drank a shitload of alcohol.

Kind of typical until you realize that I would finish a package worth of cigarettes per day. By that point, the shopkeeper at the cheap store I would go to would wrinkle his nose when I came in and say "You again?"

One thing led to another, and I woke up one day in a hospital room. To this day, I'm not sure what happened, some sort of freak accident.

I didn't care that much about my condition. My parents would pay for my hospital bills, even though they had lost hope in me long ago. What I did care about, however, was the person I shared the room with.

The room itself was much too white, and I would open my eyes and end up blinking several times before being able to look around. The only other color really came from my roommate's eyes.

Well, no. His pajamas were relatively colorful as well, but they were less noticeable because the tints were fading and the Star Wars pattern was starting to disappear.

My roommate couldn't have been older than nine at the time, I think. His name was Eren, and he had remarkable sea green eyes. I still remember them today.

I didn't have to ask him what he had, with his bald head and scrawny body. He had obviously been here a while, because when I woke up the day I arrived, he casually told me "Welcome to Stohess Hospital, hope you enjoy your stay," as though he was someone working there instead of a patient.

I managed to pull my lips into a smile of sorts when I saw him, but it felt like the biggest lie I had ever told in my life, even after the numerous times that I had assured my parents I would stop smoking and drinking.

I looked away after the expression, afraid that he would call me out on it, afraid that he would yell at me like my mother did about my bad habits and my future. Afraid that the little boy attached to a constantly beeping heart monitor would suddenly grow into some sort of monster, there to scream at me about how horrible of a person I was.

But my fears subsided. I quickly learned that Eren really enjoyed doing two different things: pulling feathers out of his pillows and show and tell. He'd show me whatever he got from anyone - his parents, his cousin, that one weird girl.

He'd show me these things again and again, whether they were knick-knacks or paddywacks or a penny picked up from the road. And when I'm about to tell him that I've had enough listening to his annoying-ass voice, he would have yet another thing to show me.

Because to him these were treasures, and each treasure was a story.

He'd say "See, this is from my mom, she came in a couple days ago. See, this is from the weird girl, sometimes I wish she would go away."

After a while, I discovered that the weird girl was his sister.

And after a while, he discovered that he missed that weird girl.

People would come and visit him every day, in contrast to no one visiting me. I would watch them give him teddy bears and balloons and "get well soon" cards. They'd stay and talk to him past visiting hours, even though most of the time was spent in a horrible, echoing silence.

And after they leave, it would be Eren and I sitting together in this hospital room. He would turn to me, his sea green eyes melancholy and not even reaching mine.

"The saddest thing about being sick is that you get whatever you want, no problem," he had said. "Because they know they can't do anything else for you. Because they've given up."

I wasn't sure whether I should have asked him, but I asked him anyway because maybe he needed it. I asked him, "Are you scared?"

He didn't even hesitate to say "Fuck yeah."

For a moment, I completely forgot he was nine years old, instead I looked into his sea green eyes and saw an old man about to pass into the abyss, frustrated that he can't do anything, can't go on. And he had the right to say "fuck", he had as much right as that old man about to die, because he was about as close to death as an old man was.

And then those eyes of his would turn pleading and he said quietly, "Please don't tell my dad I said a bad word."

Time passed, and I knew I would be released soon. He turned to me one day, looking like an old man again, "Do you believe in angels, Levi?"

And I was going to hesitate, I was going to lie again, but before I could think of doing that, I said "Not lately."

I was absolutely certain that he was going to hate me, and I was prepared for that. But I realized he doesn't exactly know how to hate, and instead he smiles at me with the patience of someone who knows they're dying.

Somehow, that hurts more.

Because I know that I'll be out of the hospital in two days, going back to my old ways of smoking a pack of cigarettes every day and drinking until I'm passed out every night. Taking my life for granted.

And meanwhile, Eren will be sitting here in this way-too-white hospital room, his sea green eyes reflecting sadness and defeat, pulling feathers out of his pillow like he always does.

The feathers would float to the ground, and the little boy would watch them land without a sound. And I find myself almost sure that he'll look up at me like a mad genius. He would tell me that gravity is the source of all our trouble, because really, it gets you down.

I wish I could have convinced myself of the truth, I wish I could do that now. The truth is that there aren't enough miracles to go around, and too many people are trying to throw pennies in a wishing well, hoping that some miracle would turn one cent into something worth the entire world to them.

I wish they would stop doing that.

Because miracles should be spent on nine-year-old boys wearing Star Wars pajamas with no hair on their heads. Miracles should be spent on those kids who spend time talking to twenty-three-year-old smoking addicts instead of going out and doing stupid things like other brats their age should do.

You know, I don't often believe in angels.

But the day I was going to leave, Eren was sitting there, pulling feathers out of his pillow and he handed one to me, saying "This is for you."

I stared at him for a moment before leaving the room.

I had expected him to say "It was the first one I grew."