I feel as though I have a cough,
A whooping cough,
Eyes stinging in the frozen chill,
A persistent breeze far from still.
My mind screeches with the disorder
Of thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,
A dizzying, monstrous gust
Distorts the clear, the sane, the just.
Like beady-eyed bats,
These thoughts loom over my quivering soul,
Jagged wings fierce with attack,
They turn everything a treacherous black.
Struggling to breathe from beneath
Life’s suppressing palm,
My lungs let out a gasp,
All truth snatched away with an icy clasp.
I am a puppet whose strings
Are strung deathly tight,
Limbs outstretched and sore from use,
Forced to endure this cruel abuse.
Puppeteers with their devilish cackles
Choke me with their devilish hands,
And so I cough, cough, cough until
Silently surrendering, I fall ill.
By Samantha Brodsky