Hazy air chokes your lungs
To push you toward liquid air
To keep climbing the rungs
Even if it seems no one cares
You stay inside to dodge the heat
Too many cooks in the woods
Maybe you turn to an icy treat
Stock up on your favorite goods
But what of the fire under your skin
It seems a more blazing type of burn
One that stifles your hidden grin
Waiting for your broken heart to turn
Where’s your fire brigade in your time of need
Who will put out these sudden rising flames
Your fair weather friends seeing you as a weed
Saying you only have yourself to blame
Clay The Scribe 