He asked me if I was in pain
And if i was why I didn't scream
Or cry or shout or make a sound
But it would all just be in vain
My lungs are too small
Too weak, too quiet
Too timid, too shy
Too tame, Too tired
The sound I hold in my chest is one far too big for my throat to hold,
And each time I take a breath and try
It cracks and breaks before it can escape
It's infuriating and unfair that
my lungs can't seem to get enough air
My lips can't seem to form the right words
Without my throat closing up so tight, it hurts
Too much to breathe, and suddenly
I'm on the floor and I can't see
YOU ARE READING
painted poet
PoetryWhat memories give me grief or gratitude, Tempts my firey attitude, comes to my mind In the wee hours of night Or of the mornings first blinking light, The second edition to my collection of fragments, pulled together like bits of stained glass, ...
