I can't breathe.
My heart feels sick.
With you gone, everything gone.
This pain, like a disease; so toxic.
It's killing me.
My amour laying so coldly.
Let this breath, leave my face.
My heart is numb, searching for space.
So much pressure on this tiny soul.
So much pressure which no soul should know.
Asphyxiation chokes this heart.
My insides have been torn apart.
Saturated in a cloud of smoke.
Making this precious soul croak.
Let this breath, leave.
It's killing me.
For I can't breathe.
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Comments about this poem (Breathe by Jessie Jett )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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