You hold me like an anchor,
like suicide ropes hold their beloved
without fear for the soul sleeping silently within.
And this soul rests like rosewater
in a potter's brown pot,
swaying like a ravenous blizzard
who lost its mother.
You whisper my name
and I become the words of a poem;
unable to move,
unable to have its own thought.
"Why does your pen only speak poetry?
Why can't it tell a story?
Is it because you lack a creative mechanism
to muster distinct thoughts?
Why are your speeches and steps scripted?"
Your words strike me like a knife in my chest
dragged up to my throat,
stuck underneath my chin,
but yet all I bleed is indecision
and the inability to complete a poem.
All because my anxiety has pretty hair
and polished nails,
she wears a skirt and dark makeup,
and her steps are soundless;
like rain piercing through clouds
even when she wears heels.
But for now this soul will sway,
for now this poetry will speak,
and for now she'll stay with me;
(or perhaps it'll be forever)
and cause these tears to roll
like rosewater from the soul.
YOU ARE READING
Anxiety and Things that Shatter
Poetry"Anxiety, you are lightening and a thunder only I can hear. In my despair, you wear an intimidating smile like a glittering stretch mark on the skin of the horizon." Cover by @DeathsDarkSoul
