Nothing special

The nerve is about to split.

You don't call it nerve-split.

This is lack of oxygen.

Afternoon sucks.

The air-condition sucks.

It sucks your peace of stomach.

You feel uneasy.

You don't know what to do.

So you write poems.

In weird blogs.

Just to vent out the anger.

Of being not able to do anything.

About global warming.

Green house gas fucks.

O Lord.

Help.