I am filled with the white noise

Of anxiety—a silver car
Slashing through the night,

Headlights flickering.

I did not see it hit me.

Nor did I feel when it left.
did it ever really leave?

The humming of its engine
Is ever present in my heart
And in my head.

Am I on the side of the road,
Or am I lying comfortably
In a cushioned chaise?


It makes no difference.

The environment does not
Alter the metal sponge
Chafing my thoughts,
Trying to clean them,
Brutal and rough,

I am filled with so much—

Why can’t I seem to choose
What my heart consists of?

When I was fourteen,
I stood tall in my skin,
Or at least, I thought
I did. But I was so small,
Taking up just enough
Space, thinking my name
Was not something
To be shared—
I did not know myself at all.

I am made of stories
That do not connect—
Coherency is lost
On my fumbling lips.
I find that events
Merge and fade,
In the wrong place,
Or never occuring—
I have never told a
Story in linear fashion.

There was a transience to the laughs,
A way it all fell out of focus--
Bright for an instant, only to diminish
Into something that never existed.

Slick-tongued quips and smiles
Enticed by a topical instance,
How do I feel knowing
That nothing is lasting?

An umbrella of headphones,
And an open bible--
The world is never constant,
But Jesus is the exception.