Splash, the water screaming in my ears,
slapping my face, hiding my tears.
My head's not below the water.
But then what is it?
I can't breathe,
I can't do it.
I open my mouth for large gulps of air.
I see blinding lights as if there's a fare.
There's no air.
I feel vacuum,
but it's not a vacuum room.
But then what is it?
I can't breathe,
I can't do it.
It's like i have choked on food.
Like getting strangled,
by hands that can't be moved.
But that's not it.
Then what is it?
I can't breathe,
I can't do it.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
Vote and share if you like it. Comment your views. Follow for more. Add it to your reading list or library.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
