Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
I'm afraid of trips to the hospital you know that. I'm allergic to dogs, cats, and dust of course you know that. Something I can't bear, but you live for. It starts with a wheeze, a trembling cough with no matter andthenIpanic.    Fiddling through old pockets and and a glove box              ican'tbreathe.                        I know you're somewhere close                                  wherethehellareyou?                                            Hiding in a pocket from yesterday                                                    thankyoujesus. Gripped firmly to my mouth I give your silver top a hard push AND THEN AT LAST vapor fills my airways to ease the inhales from my last cigarette. A subtle sweet taste, like spray candy mixed with cough syrup. I hold for ten alligators so you can work in peace as you navigate through swamps of shisha and THC. A thick fog I cannot see. Ripping the mucus from my walls making tar stuck to tissue seem like a lubricant for a fire engine. At last clean air. A moment enjoyed for a minute. One last puff, and I'm not dead yet.
0
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
Ode to Albuterol
I'm afraid of trips to the hospital you know that. I'm allergic to dogs, cats, and dust of course you know that. Something I can't bear, but you live for. It starts with a wheeze, a trembling cough with no matter andthenIpanic.    Fiddling through old pockets and and a glove box              ican'tbreathe.                        I know you're somewhere close                                  wherethehellareyou?                                            Hiding in a pocket from yesterday                                                    thankyoujesus. Gripped firmly to my mouth I give your silver top a hard push AND THEN AT LAST vapor fills my airways to ease the inhales from my last cigarette. A subtle sweet taste, like spray candy mixed with cough syrup. I hold for ten alligators so you can work in peace as you navigate through swamps of shisha and THC. A thick fog I cannot see. Ripping the mucus from my walls making tar stuck to tissue seem like a lubricant for a fire engine. At last clean air. A moment enjoyed for a minute. One last puff, and I'm not dead yet.
Written by
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem