There is slow wind
Prickling my neck hairs.
A creeping notion
Caused by vanity.

Softly it travels
About the body,
An air of largeness
Devours my tongue.

The voice grows louder,
Arms extend madly,
Brimming with hot air.
I’m a red balloon.

Yet I erred; I spoke
To pretentiously,
And a small needle
Punctured my soft skin.

I lay now, shredded
Bits of torn rubber
Are carried away…
Air is what remains.

Sense never misses
A chance to destroy
Superficiality

Lazarus Knix

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ego-ballon/