Fits of hyper-venti-lation
With no seemingly logical explanation.
All you’ve done is say those six sharp words,
That are now stabbing you in the back, just like swords.
Your thoughts jumbled up in a giant mess,
Lost in all of the dark, heavy stress.
And it’s all pressed
On your quivering, fragile chest.
It feels like a never ending pit.
No one seems to understand it.
And now all you’re left with,
is that dizzy-making, stomach-churning hell of a fit
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
Fits of hyper-venti-lation
With no seemingly logical explanation.
All you’ve done is say those six sharp words,
That are now stabbing you in the back, just like swords.
Your thoughts jumbled up in a giant mess,
Lost in all of the dark, heavy stress.
And it’s all pressed
On your quivering, fragile chest.
It feels like a never ending pit.
No one seems to understand it.
And now all you’re left with,
is that dizzy-making, stomach-churning hell of a fit
Request permission to use this poem