I imagine things that do not exist
And to those that do, I am blind
As a spew of caustic apprehension
Pervades through my mind.

I am possessed with a fear of losing
A thing much near and dear,
Or having lost it already
Or, more fiercely, not having had it ever.

Losing it would affect me
And make sour my present,
But not having had it threatens me more
Stripping off my very essence.

Did I hallucinate then
If I indeed lived in a delusion
And thought of holding the thing
So firmly in my possession?

Or am I being paranoid now
In making mountain of a molehill
When I still possess the thing with me
Unblemished, unbruised, and whole?