When someone asks me a sudden question,
I pray for the hands of the clock
to freeze for five minutes so I can couple a response without flaws,
because most times my memory is a museum covered in dust
and I do not remember where I dropped the mop stick--
but time bears no emotion to feel my discomfort.
I don't stutter as often as I used to.
Now whenever I speak I do not ex-ex--
expect my words to fail me.
Sometimes they still do.
At first, my mind assures me everything is okay until every syllable
starts to feel like a pothole covered in shallow gravels.
Overtime I have learnt to chisel my sentences,
to mold every reply into clever miniatures.
I have learnt to treat time with patience,
to sip every second like a cup of hot coffee,
carefully now it barely scorches.
So pardon every pause we make before we tell you how our day went.
Because every pause is a search,
an attempt to resurrect memory,
to prevent a dreadful stutter.
But on days when fear begins to tickle impatience,
'I'm fine' feels like two fire trucks trapped in a traffic jam, unable to get get get--
to reach it's destination, till the whole house burns down to crumbles.
On days when my tongue is a congested boulevard,
I feel my words struggling to drive home safely.
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
