If want was water, I would be drowning, my head under completely and my oxygen quickly depleting. If confusion was cold, My fingers would be numb and I wouldn't even have a coat to ward off the freezing. If youth was you, It would be slipping away by the second, And I can't get a hold to stop it. Now, my air is gone, I'm shivering to the bone, and can't keep a hold on. But, this is only a poem: I know I'm not suffocating, subzero, or slipping. But I can't help but feel like the more I write, the farther I get from reality and the closer I get to metaphor mortality.