My Own Anxiety.

I can see it as sure as the days are long:

nobody notices how high I am strung;

nobody’s around to sew my mouth shut,

there’s no one here to tell me I’m wrong…

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it becomes clear that this pain is my own,

it is futile to try and lighten the load,

every moment leaves a burden burned into my soul,

unbearable, unthinkable – to any person that I know…

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People like to tell me about this thing “anxiety”,

how it is a mental state that is controlled by me,

the very people that never went without a single thing,

like to tell me how my feelings can be fixed through therapy…

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sure, it helps to talk and write about what’s come to pass,

but nothing alters what I see inside the looking glass,

nothing erases history, or takes a damn thing back,

there is no leaving my breed of grief somewhere in the past.

My, Oh My.

 

It will someday claim,
All I’ve left of these short breaths…
My “anxiety”.

It pains by no name,
Bringer of a thousand deaths…
My old memories.

It’s whipped me to shame,
Jimmied my heart from my chest…
My own mockery.

It’s always the same,
Threatening to take my best…
My PTSD.

My, My.

It will someday claim,
All I’ve left of these short breaths…
My “anxiety”.

It pains by no name,
Bringer of a thousand deaths…
My old memories.

It’s whipped me to shame,
Jimmied my heart from my chest…
My own mockery.

It’s always the same,
Threatening to take my best…
My PTSD.

Dig In.

When I have to be,

one of the community,

it exhausts me,

uphill hiking,

non-comprehending,

distrusting,

not even vaguely,

a foreign dialect,

to my hearing;

I just want to scream,

“can we end this meeting?”

so that I can fly solo,

and avoid the battering;

I’m just,

no damned good,

at this group therapy,

sharing of my feelings…

no disrespect,

but I’m gluttonous,

for the punishment,

of these comfortable,

and familiar things.