The Process

There are one thousand words

flying through the air

squeezing out my oxygen

tempting me to pick

       to choose

       to decide

which word to write next.  

Hurry.

Or the oxygen will leave-

the last breathe pushed from my lungs.

They fly at the speed of light

(waiting/tempting/begging) me

(my lungs pleading)

to grab a word.

I do.

The ink stains the page

oxygen is released.

I am free.

I write. One page. Two. Three.

  Hurry-
before the process repeats.