There is, a back and forth,
Between the burning desire of confession,
And the cold despair of anxiety,
That spins my mind in such dizzying circles,
Only solution being: inaction.

The strife that comes with such a choice is staunch,
Unwavering in it's indecisive nature,
Ironically enough, this feeling is reflected,
Like a mirror image, that much is quite certain.

Perhaps more frightening then this inaction itself,
With it's insidious grip on my thoughts and wishes,
Sending my worry into a fury so blinding,
The mind incapable of dwelling elsewhere,
Only solution being: longing.

Oh, the melancholy that comes from such a deep longing,
It's influence tugging not just at the heart, and the spirit,
But at the being, the pain of seeing so clearly your wants,
Unsure of how to truly take grasp of that which you love.

It is a wonders if this longing is just like that mirror,
One of the greatest wonders to cross this weary world,
Because in knowing such an intimate truth,
There then remains not a moment unfettered by anxiety.