There’s a pressure.
It’s building,
Inside of my head.
My skull, it might crack,
Soon I’ll be dead.
It’s clogging my throat,
My nose,
Even ears.
I can’t breath, I can’t think,
I can’t even,
Shed tears.
My vision is blurry,
Like a film,
White and thin,
Has laid over my cornea.
And sunken,
Right in.
It just keeps on building,
And I think;
‘This must be it’
But it just keeps on building,
And I’m not,
Dead yet.