I’ve always dreamed of textbook conversations Words that flow like a river or stream Paper thin small talk With little to no casualties My tongue would welcome the soul Not spit fire Flames That catch on pale skin Ignite into a billion warships The devil himself admires the disappointment Because I can’t whisper a single word That wouldn’t **** an innocent soul He’s just always there Ripping my throat open Demanding war Even though the peace deep in my heart Wants to scream He puts me on sale while my face turns sea green And oh, a blessed child Wants to ask me about my day Although my mind is profoundly shredded My thoughts screeching Insisting I reply But he stops me halfway Spits in my face Oh, and I’m speaking like a half dead horse Whinnying as its back is beaten By the whip of the beholder Still remaining submissive.
I wrote this walking out of my classroom. I thought of how I am struggling with anxiety And I wrote a poem about it. The words kept coming out So I kept writing them. This is basically what it feels like in my brain when I converse with someone. Scary. Like exactly how I feel