My anxiety is an axe murderer,
with a flower in its hand,
it urges me to slay my self,
with ill will and poetic demand,
and bitters and salt,
and honey and malt,
grains of irreconcilability through me,
malleable like mountains, in desert sands.
It’s wanting to read a book,
at the same time as another book,
and another book,
and not a page at a time,
but all the pages all the time,
so you’re defeated and read none of them.
Yes, its a decision to be indecisive,
it’s corrosive, dismissive, yet oh so inclusive,
we can’t filter out what matters,
because everything matters at once.
Anxiety is knowing you have two loaded fists,
unafraid of the world before you,
choosing to be passive,
but beating yourself to death.
It’s knowing the every crevice of my skin,
aching for its touch,
but not letting anyone in,
enticed by, but so afraid of sin.
What world am I living in,
how can I ever win,
when the dichotomy of existence,
lies between procrastination and doing,
smudged prose and is paper thin.
It’s the ambassador, the host of the party,
who invites everyone in,
locks the door,
says welcome, and pulls the pin.