Give me my inhaler

in my asthma attack.

Set me free, jailer

I want my breath back.

Air can't come in,

my lungs won't let it.

Time is wearing thin,

in this deep, dark pit.

I've seen the smoker's lung

and it's horrifying to think

that my joy could be flung

straight off of the brink.

Saying "how can you have asthma when there's air all around"

is like saying "how dare you have depression when there's joy to be found."