Why do I feel as if my lungs are made out of paper?
And this invisible rain keeps bleeding through...
til there is nothing left with which I may breathe.
These little wheels within my mind race,
over-analyzing the flow of the tide on the beach
and why it mimics cruelly my heart.
For some reason, the back of my mind
smells like that of clorox and illness
and my vision is white, too much like death.
It all reminds me of this poetic death,
where I shall commence to fail you shortly.
And one flew off the face of the cliffs.
