The Runner's Horror

Toss, and turn, and cough, and wheeze,

Feel the gentle, frigid breeze.

Winter holds its grip on me;
Air so dry–can hardly breathe.

Sprint, and stop, and sit, and sob.

All surpass, the race is robbed.

Lungs can’t hold the air too tight.

Oh, but that’s alright.

Hold it in.

Let it out.

Crackles, pops, and hacking sounds.

As a teapot short and stout,

Whistles ring, the wind climbs out.

Let me breathe,

Just let me breathe,

Just,

Let me breathe,

Just

Let

Me 

Breathe.