My Words

All of my words feel dry and stale
Even saying that feels like a cliché

It's like, I've been so preoccupied with

Productivity, product, producing, the production

that everything just feels like brownish-gray

OHhh, and every Sunday night I finally gain

Peace again.  

That peace of being.

It took all damn weekend; you know exactly what I mean.

And then Tuesday comes

And I'm back to feeling stressed.

And I forget how to sit

I forget how to rest.

And I'm stuck.  

I'm stuck in my anxiety.

Over what?! 

Uncertainty?  Propriety??

What I meant what I said, what I did

What i have to do, where I'll be,

When I'll be, how much it costs

S**t, f**k, f**k, f**k

The to-do's, the just-don'ts

It's all a heavy weight

And even though I still pray

I forget how to wait.

If silence is golden, then what to do say to the person whose mind moves a million miles per hour?

Reviews

[Samantha]

I think there is a lot of truth in the feelings of this poem