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Priya Ratti Aug 2016
My walls will cave in (just like placards stacked up horizontally fall back with the wind) along with every wave of anxiety-
Right then, I will fall short of words, or rather lose the intelligence of speaking-
Goosebumps, butterflies, shivers and my heart dipping into the cold Pacific won't just be defense mechanisms.
My heart will appear to jolt awake and then dead repeatedly by the society I put myself in;
I will feel electricity running around in my veins, often sparking out of my eyes as the salty tears that trigger short circuits
The ones they say could be caused by the heat-
Indeed- but it's also the cold, the wind, rain and the snow
Words like unknown, unforeseen and anonymous manifesting and getting under my skin- make my jaws quiver and heart dip.

Often my gut nudges me to stand and to speak and to, for once, not fear an omen before I deliver a speech,
But when I speak, though my mouth moves to enunciate what I remembered from the paper,
And as I attempt to collect and reflect my confidence through my features,
My fingers tremble as I try to fit them into my fists behind my back-
These legs shiver behind the pedestal, hidden under slacks.
For people think these mere trifles shouldn't ******* the silhouette that I bear,
Fear of the unknown? Don't be scared, scared!
My nerve ends nervously make my fingers dance as I attempt to provide them a temporary occupation-
'Cross your fingers, close your fists,
Pretend to text, you're better than this.'

So dear me, oh dear me I am sorry-
I am sorry for constantly holding you back;
Sorry for all the chances I did not let you take, all because
I sometimes tend to diverge my faults out as through a prism,
And have always been someone who can never jeopardize her pursuit for perfection.

Sorry, for the seeds of my anxiety have given birth to the roots of my skepticism-
For I paint doubt over every pretty scenery you etch in my mind,
My inhibitions and myself, thinking things over, rewind, rewind.

If I were Rapunzel my anxiety would be the tower that holds me encapsulated- a hostage;
With no demands whatsoever, only a plain, ruthless, endless need to cause damage.
Priya Ratti Aug 2016
'Once upon a time' and 'Many years ago';
I begin with an idle thinkers' reminisce-
A past, flowing into the future
As a waterfall cascades down the valley
I am delicately delivered,
Intricately fed into the senses of a curious listener-
I am words, sometimes arranged into a ballad,
Sometimes haphazard and tragic;

I'm known by speech and the word of mouth,
My identity laced into the syllables that people whisper,
And sometimes it slips into the conversation out of the blue;
I wonder and wonder,
As I find myself moulded into verses that don't rhyme
I begin to question the veracity of my existence
Dubious as I am, I find-
myself compiled in wrinkled volumes of pale history books,
Sometimes constructively reconstructed, from my toe up to my hood
Fabled into gossips, garnishing lunch and dinner;
My world reduced into words- sometimes a saint, other times a sinner.

I find bits of me scattered around in peoples' lives, bigger stories,
But not a minute passes
When I don't loath or despise,
The shallowness of perception
As my depth is undermined.

Unknown and unfortunately misunderstood,
My story carries on and on-
Masked by words that fail to define,
Who, what and why I am
Slowly ageing and spent away by time.

Alas, I lie untouched:
Abysmal, surrounded by darkness-
Alone, having become
the perfect manifestation of what they'd thought of me,
My words are fiction and so am I,
And this,
this is my story.


— The End —