Anxiety.
It's that snake that gnaws on your feet as they are turning cold
nibbling on your soft skin, bit by bit crawling up, up,
up.
It's the constant pacing to and fro and back and forth and back and f-
forgetting what you had to say
And not having anything to say but more: having a lot to say and no one
Or no words
Or no way.
It's that tightening in your chest, that horrible little knot that makes a not-so-little blockage
of blood
and as your knuckles grow white, your heart knocks madly at the ribcage
so your brain decides it is okay for it to pop the red ***** out
but fate declines and you fall, sob.
You sob, and you ask the heavens
and any existing, non-existing God or Source or Goodness
to turn off the ****** faucet from which your fears have been flowing so freely--those fears you know well yourself are unworldly--
(Or am I saying that because I know that's how anyone else would take them?)
But real or not; unrealistic perhaps; you are powerless at their hands.
Truly, that's what you are.
Powerless.