Anxiety

A poem about anxiety

"Anxiety"

When I say I'm anxious, what I really mean

is that I'm drowning in a sea of fear

As rampant thoughts of silly things 

Keep screaming loud between my ears. 

These thoughts are always real to me

And I know it's not how it appears, 

I've wondered from a place of peace

And now I've somehow stumbled here. 

Some say "you need to get grip!"

And, "can't you see the hurt you cause!"

I know, but I can't make it quit;

There's no remote to play or pause.

Sometimes, I see through the rubble

enough to know the contempt 

of those effected by my struggle

so then I make an attempt..

I stand up straight, stick out my chest,

And speak out loud with pride 

"I will... eventually, find some rest

from the storm that's raging inside.."

But it never lasts long enough

to mend the bridges I have burned.

It's not long before I'm in the rough 

despite what I think I've learned. 

It seems I've always been mistaken, 

behaving in spite of my intent

punctuating all my statements 

With, "Wait, that wasn't what I meant."

People-pleasing just to fall in line;

The path of least resistance.

I'll be independent some other time.

Right now, I need the assistance.

I keep playing the same tape through, 

Over and over; like a movie in my head, 

Rehearsing every single move,

Regretting every word that I've said. 

It drives me crazy; or should I say that?

I'm afraid, if I do, it might be true.

Afraid to try to sit down or lay back. 

It might be the last thing I ever do. 

So I keep pacing and pacing, 

Around my house, around this town, 

My palms are sweaty, my mind is racing,

Fear keeps pushing me down.

I feel like a cancer to this place;

Like I'm a danger to society..

I don't want anyone to see my face

because I'm ashamed of this anxiety.

A poem for the fearful

Reviews

[KeeD]

You include the reader into this vivid paranoia, inviting them into the mosh pits of this disease. You narrate the journey and we re-live the turmoil but it's a beautiful disaster and masterfully played out. When the internal struggle inside beats aloud its drum, you write about it. Because you write about it beautifully.