My anxiety is a trap,
the battle in the middle of the ring,
me against myself,
knowledge and ignorance,
and the middleman trying to make them touch gloves,
is the black and white referee.
He’s black and white for a reason,
pardon me,
he’s a he and a she,
he is you and she is me,
bottled up anxiety,
is a fist and a cheek,
the powerful and the meek,
out cold, and last one standing on their feet,
in the mist of socialising breath, cigar and cheap perfume filled arena’s,
or alone with a street lamp in the street.
It’s seeing the punch coming,
knowing how to avoid it,
but knowing your bound by the rules of fate,
and copping it sweet.
It’s looking your opponent in their eyes,
when done is done,
smiling the smile of knowledge,
both of you aware,
you could have beaten him any time you chose,
but you were stunted,
and bound by what God wanted.
In essence,
your anxiety,
the hue that haunts you,
undecided on black or white,
trying to mix a palette of grey,
is a reluctance to submit,
knowing,
you are most definitely not in charge.
You can very well have all the foresight in the world,
and knowledge of the sages,
it means nothing,
if you don’t accept,
what is written,
in ages,
in predestined pages.
W.E.
lonerloaner 