Home > Life, poetry > It was out of my hands.

It was out of my hands.

I was settled in bed,

feeling heavy with contentment

after a day well spent.

As thoughts drifted freely

and I began crafting the next day’s poem,

I was snatched by the neck.

Hooked by a cruel, barbed jolt of remembrance,

I panicked.

It was out of my hands.

Jagged little inhales.

Convulsive little exhales.

Each breath constricted

with the fear and confusion that comes with letting go.

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Categories: Life, poetry Tags: , , ,
  1. January 7, 2014 at 00:25

    I liked the jump up from the 6th line, sudden attack of thrill and excitement out of curiosity of whether you were killed or survived… ๐Ÿ˜‰ ๐Ÿ˜›

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