Air

A short poem I wrote when I was fourteen.

 

I am the inhale,

An inward yawn,

So greatly written,

And beautifully drawn,

I push through the lungs,

And keep going on,

But in our own battle,

I’ve never really won.

 

You are the exhale,

An outward sigh,

So keen and intelligent,

Easy to rely,

But you won’t admit,

You’re no perfect guy,

And in our own battle,

You will also die.

 

I give you all,

I give everything away,

There’s nothing I won’t tell you,

Or won’t ever say,

        You take it all in,                    

But want more everyday,

In our own battle,

I’m torn as I lay.

 

We’re just thick air,

The hardest to swallow,

Like salt in our wounds,

We always wallow,

Why can’t we just breathe,

Together without the sorrow,

Because we need each other,

Or we’re just empty and hallow.