Posts Tagged ‘Anxiety’

Last night I had an anxiety attack.

I fell asleep at eleven,

woke up at 2,

and couldn’t go back to sleep.

I was hung up on

schoolwork, relationships, my place

in life. Not so much wondering

as letting it all spiral into chaos within my head.

At lunch I felt depression settle in-

the feeling of Not Feeling.

I told myself that I wasn’t going to wallow,

that I was going to feel things

because I was better than this,

but my body barely listened.

And all I want is for a friend to listen.

I may be in a new place,

but I want to keep my old, good friends.

I don’t want to feel ignored,

isolated,

alone.

Seconds are spent making scribbles

into words.

Then the abrupt

change,

the buzz sits like a heavy crown

and hurts like a bruise

on top of my head.

 

Electric eels no bigger

than worms

crawl beneath my skin.

They work their way down

my neck-

 

my spine, a railway-

and enter my arms.

 

I feel them squirm atop my bones.

 

Words change.

They are mine and no longer

mine. 

Each dark letter is

an abyss

pressed onto paper.

Hurried Day

Posted: April 18, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sun gallops over

me, I am burdened-

many things to do-

too soon comes Day’s End-

 

Many people

try to be “cool”

by acting aloof when

their hearts flutter,

and they cannot utter

what they want, for then

a wall is broken, and they’ll feel

foolish. But that’s just as well-

even more so, because the one

they wished to tell now knows.

This will thrill

like the sun, anxiety

of spring undoing

the old curse

of cold overstayed.

And the green pushes up,

unfurls like a map of stars,

and ribbed transparent stalactites

fall to shatter into

the earth. A new

song will flit over the hills.

Dark fields

of coppery wires,

thin, curled, and soft as bedding in a cradle.

Mere glimpses

of patterned, colored cloth.

Stretches of cream

creating uniformity.

 

A red frog leaps in my belly.

Linen wash cloths dipped in warm water are pressed,

delicately, against my cheeks,

my neck.

The frog is kicking,

reaching for his wife

who is also jumping wildly,

pounding against my ribs.

 

I turn away

to simply breathe

and cool the frogs,

pull away from the linen.

 

I swallow,

then take the next step

toward you.

Conversation is not my strong suit.

In fact, most people know me as being mute,

or simply quiet.

So finding the right words to say

to you is difficult. Each day,

I won’t deny it,

I want to say “hello”, and so much more.

But before I can, you close the door.

Do the worries cease?

Worries that I’ll say something wrong,

or that before I articulate you’ll be long

gone. Out like a breeze.