Just a quick shower that was it.
Make sure my hair will look fluffy, no hesitation,
to let everyone think,
'He must be doing fine if he doesn't stink'
But every time,
my lungs can't help but be filled
with unclean air in still stagnation,
muggy, hot, and salty to breathe.
I hate who I see
'A man whos not me'
these words, always left in repetition.
As I take in the wretched air that is forced,
plunged, pressed, and shoved into my lungs.
I'd rather be unkempt than see him again,
the man in the foggy mirror,
my old best friend.
I see him every day as I choke on strained air,
'When will it end'
this imposing wet ventilation.