Writing a poem
is like opening a window
and letting fresh air
rush through a hot
stuffy room.
The air so thick it
stifles and strangles.
The hot breath of the
room reaching its thick
muggy fingers up your
nose
and into your brain preventing
all thought. You
can't even breathe be-
cause the air's in your lungs
and wrapped around your
chest crushing you and
trapped you flail about for
the window
Frantically
raise the glass
lean forward and
inhale, mouth
open,
something clear, cool, and clean.
