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Poem

Aspiration.
Such a hopeful word;
A harbinger of bright futures:
Determination at its best--
A breath of fresh air

Until you're choking on it.
Each bite problematic.
Will it go down,
or will you slowly suffocate
one piece of food at a time?
Textures become the enemy.

Will this one go down?
Will it stick?
Can you cough it out?
Or is it packing, piece by piece 
bite by bite--
Slowly, filling your lungs
in a wordless body that can't fight back?

Suffocation is an ugly death, 
not something to aspire too.
So why give those hacking coughs
such a glowing name?
Breathe it all in, 
but the air it's not sweet.
Such wonderful potential you have,
respiration of breakfast, lunch and dinner, even saliva;
layer by layer becomes a ticking bomb.
Who will be feeding you
when it becomes too much;
when respiration is no longer your aspiration,
And Aspiration is cause of death?

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