If I died
Would you miss me?
If I lied
Would you forgive me?
If I love you
Would you love me?

I put One above you
Who do you put above me?

If I hate myself
Would you hate with me?
If I find joy above all else
Would you celebrate with me?
If I'm lonely
Would you stay with me?
If I let sin own me
Would you pray with me?

A place for everything and everything in its place
I say to you on the subject of asylum inmates
Washing their hair with hand soap,
Driving by in our heated car on winter tires,
With a trunk full of tools, smelling of bleach.

“Where are we going?” I ask,
As a road bump rollicks our persons.
“A place…” you begin to say, knowing I’ll finish the rest.

The blurred landscape, the transition from place
To place makes me think of more things and places.
The poor in the streets for trusting the rich, served Right,
Denizens of New Orleans who live on the brink
The tools in the trunk, beginning to stink--

Part of me wants to see the truth before it’s too late,
And the other knows our destination.
For the tools trusted me, as I do you,
Yet there is no other place for me.

Someone just said something about me,
It’s starting to drive me crazy,
Oh please don’t make it start again,
This isn’t a feeling that can be supported by any men,

My thoughts are beginning to race,
At much too fast of a pace,
I keep trying to make it stop,
I can already feel myself drop,

It’s called anxiety,
Oh there goes gravity,
Here comes insanity,
And everyone’s pity,

I’m starting to lose control,
I can’t feel myself as a whole,
I need help,
I need help,

Here we go again,
I can’t wait for,
The moment when,
My head stops its own war,

It’s called anxiety,
It’s not ending anytime now,
It’s being juged in our society,
It’s not something we should allow,

It’s called anxiety,
Oh there goes gravity,
Here comes insanity,
And everyone’s pity

Body shaking
Heart racing
Mind scattered
Feeling dizzy
Need help
Can't talk
Go away
Can't walk
Pass out
Why not cry a little too

Hello my name is anxiety

I twist and turn,
Suffle in my
Hospital bed.
The drum of
The dextrose drops,
Plays as the background
For my despondent lulluby.
Clickering and clackering;
The white feet
On the frozen
Hospital floor
Feature the vocals
Of the weeping relatives
I do not know.
A chorus
Of morose songs
That bellow
From the valley
Of faded faces
Dulls the senses
Of the patients
In the ICU.
Doctors wearing
White garbs
With darkened eyes
Whisper to each other
Like a cult gathering
With prayers
And curses
On their lips.
They appear
To me
Like snakes
On the tree
Throwing sins
And travesties
To the
Invalid saints.

I, fight fervently
Against sleep.
Although almost
Twenty-four,
Am a child
Again.
A child who
Detests sleep
Like the plague
That took me.
In this hospital bed
I start my vigil;
A pilgrim to zion
Daunted by
The task before him.
Beset on all sides
By treasures
And trinkets
That would
Want him stray.
My eyes serve
As the lamp
To which
My body,
A servant,
Keeps alight.
In wait
For the return
Of the master.
An encounter
To rekindle
The bond
In childhood.
A chance
To decide
Which fashion
It will end.
So eyes,
Stay alight,
For your oil
Will only
Last one night;
Keep the fight.
Despondency
May fill these
Final moments
But at the moment
Of the master's
Return
The chorus
Of faded faces
Will turn into
Choirs of angels
And there;

Sleep.