I haven't even taken the narcotic painkillers yet, so I can't blame them for my terrible poetry.

Traded in my wisdom
For a [not so] perfect smile.
Kept my calloused feet
So I could walk [another] mile.
Swapped out all my social graces
For a [well-used] well-written book.
All of the characters were me
Except the one who knew [what] to look [for].



(The pain isn't too bad yet, but the numbness of my lower lip and tongue are seriously annoying.)