I itch, but only metaphorically.
It's not a physical sensation, merely a tick,
like clock hands make but more deafening.
I feel it in my skin, like bugs crawling,
creating passage ways to safe places
that I didn't know existed,
and I've still yet to actually find them

It just isn't easy to explain anxiety to
someone whose never had it.
It's like trying to teach a penguin to fly
with an anvil strapped to its chest.
Originally it was impossible,
but when you have anxiety,
you find ways to make it even more so.

When I pack my bags and leave,
Dear, don't think I really want to go,
It's just hard for me to believe,
The love you speak but never show.

And if I go, would you ask me to stay,
And eventually learn how to love me?
I guess, you'd just watch me fade away,
Because for you, letting go is easy.

When I pack my bags and leave,
Dear, please remember that I tried,
But giving up is not just for the naive,
In love, even the strongest could get tired.

The result is inevitable
The brittle bundle that it becomes

A strum of the banjo
A lone note
Fragile and feeble as it hums

And so the tumbleweed rolls
Its prickly claws hungry for redemption
From the ineluctable fate
The cursed dole

Among the dust-filled air and crimson sky
The lack of time is hard to deny
So with the eerie creaking of the abandoned gate

Out the tumbleweed goes
The echo of the deafening silence follows