Spring: It may just kill me

The air is choking me again.
I hate the feeling;
Hot fingers around my throat.

The sun sets fire to my eyes,
temporarily blinding.
I think I can smell something burning…

I scribbled this down as I sat and withered in the humid spring heat of the South one day. I think it’s my need to be melodramatic when I’m miserable that fuels my poetry writing with its too many metaphors and dripping imagery. >.<

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