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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

I only write poems when I really feel it and this poem was something I wrote from deep down and I hold onto each word

There’s an invisible hand around my throat

And its chocking me

Its skeleton fingers long and sharp

Sinking into my skin

With its claws

Until I can’t breathe

I try to pull it away

To let the air, escape my lungs

But its grip is to tight



Submitted: March 09, 2020

© Copyright 2020 the book worm. All rights reserved.

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You've expressed this very well. Many can identify with this feeling.

Tue, March 10th, 2020 1:52am

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