The house is full of horrors,
This house, it owns no love.
The air is filled with madness,
The floor boards moan in sadness.
The sounds it makes at night,
And the walls, blood red and white,
Represent the turmoil that’s going on inside,
But everything is perfect on the outside.
The grass is trimmed,
The flowers bloomed,
The hedges cut,
The paint renewed,
So people walking by they smile,
And continue on their way.
But the house it cannot move,
For a house wasn’t built with feet to run,
Or a mouth or eyes,
To tell you something’s wrong.
This house it carries on,
It has to stand up strong,
To support the demons ruining
All the paint work.
They will rip it all to shreds,
Tare it up until it’s nearly dead,
Without a detectable scratch upon the surface.
The house it cannot show
The scars it bares inside,
And its figured that’s all it’ll ever deserve.
There’s no way to break the cycle
trust me it’s tried,
And all it’s done is made itself cry,
Which resulted in a leak down from the roof.
The house was beat
And still no outward proof.
There never was,
Nor will there ever be,
Someone there to help it carry on.

Anxiety
is like the ugly sweater
the aunt you never see
gives you for christmas,
except eventually
it becomes part of the lining
of your skin,
and no matter how many times
your mother tells you
it’s okay to take it off
and shove it under the bed
until next time you see her,
you can’t.
So, you have to wear it under
all your normal clothes
and pretend you don’t notice
when the tiny fibers of the itchy wool
peak out from underneath your favorite shirt.
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror,
I see the colors of the
anxious fibers speckled
in the subtle bags under my eyes
when I can’t sleep.
Sometimes allergies look the same.
And I am selectively permeable.
So I can pick and choose
which molecules of information
penetrate the pores of my skin.
But sometimes,
attached to my contact lenses
is an anxious fiber
or two
and my tattletale eyes
share my secrets.