you just want
to slam
your trembling fists into splintering wood,
and bleed ink,
and bleed a masterpiece.

you just want
to wipe
your sorry arm across the angry clutter
of unresolved promises
hoarding psychic energy on your desk.

you just want
to stare
with bitter, blank hate,
as papers flutter downward
into a scattered heap
on the floor,
but

most of the time, you just need
to breathe, and
to gnaw

the clock out from your skull, and
the words out from your knotted thoughts,
and the truth out from your indolent hands,
but

most of the time, you don't.

most of the time, you just want to
scream and
scream and
scream:

“I am not good enough.”

I feel the warden staring down at me.
Is he staring at the furrowing of my pensive brow,
smirking as my thoughts churn endlessly?
Getting a kick out of these antsy lips,
Laughing at the wretch with flighty focus?
Laughing
at the reddening in my eyes
as a trembling, glossy veil surfaces? I’m done here. Leave me alone. I just want to
Focus.

The warden sinks his long, icy fingernails into my collarbones .
A winter frost crawls up my neck.
His wicked tongue slithers into my ear and poisons my potential.
My thoughts churn until they are on fire.
I claw at my eyes, and see my
Autonomy,
encapsulated inside a foggy membrane.

The warden callously twirls the key
to a world beyond my anxiety.