It’s a quiet kind of anxious,
nothing sharp,
nothing loud,
Just a whisper in the background thinking way too proud.
No fires left to put out,
no deadlines chasing me,
Just a room full of stillness and a mind that won’t agree.
I’m alone with the silence,
but it won’t sit still,
Like it’s searching for a problem just to prove that it will.
All the back-burner worries start to hum soft and low,
Strange how nothing is wrong,
but it won’t let me go.
They say I don’t know resting,
don’t know how to just be,
Without reaching for a reason,
without needing to see.
If I loosen my grip,
would the feeling pass through?
Or just echo in the quiet like it always seems to do?
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 7:54 AM UTC
It’s a quiet kind of anxious,
nothing sharp,
nothing loud,
Just a whisper in the background thinking way too proud.
No fires left to put out,
no deadlines chasing me,
Just a room full of stillness and a mind that won’t agree.
I’m alone with the silence,
but it won’t sit still,
Like it’s searching for a problem just to prove that it will.
All the back-burner worries start to hum soft and low,
Strange how nothing is wrong,
but it won’t let me go.
They say I don’t know resting,
don’t know how to just be,
Without reaching for a reason,
without needing to see.
If I loosen my grip,
would the feeling pass through?
Or just echo in the quiet like it always seems to do?
