"Lungs Half Full"

This is one of those poems that smacks of being too obviously stated, but hopefully is worded in a way that makes you wonder if something is underneath, which of course something is. But the underneath, which is hinted at (in one place) as being maybe sexual, or maybe standard "Bolden irony", is the fact that at our core, there are certain facts, certain shortcuts, that waste life around us but we use because we do not know better; and the one we are most guily of is not taking full enough breaths.

Our lungs half full, for most of our breaths -- As though we loathed the sweet taste of air, As though we prefer living half- suffocated, As though, As though -- And all we can think about is taking another, Another and another, Quiet, or loud, alone or in a room filled with Acquaintances, cold or night, day or Drizzling rain; The great in and out To the back of our throats, The essential refrain, Again and again With all the vagaries of wasted Potential.

This poem written by W. Doug Bolden.

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