But where does the time go? Between 10:30pm and 3:30 am?
Spent in tears, in laughter, or in silence, all of them capable of being a twilight time zone without you realizing.
Staring at a notecard sized screen. Turning page after page in a book. Repeating to yourself for the seventh time, "just one more" even if you know you still don't mean it.
Those phone calls. The ones when it feels as if saying "goodnight" is like flying back from Neverland.
Laying still, or restless, gazing out in a dark room, up at a popcorn ceiling, each kernel a reminder of an embarrassing thing you said in 5th grade. We crawl into a blackhole of -wish to be forgotten but always remembered- mistakes.
Rehearsing your script for a significant part of your tomorrow. Imagining possible life memories in anticipation of an adventure that is waiting on you to begin it.
Solving solutions to problems that haven't occurred.
Searching for answers to the questions our universe has not yet answered.
What is the real order of life to our world?
What is truly beyond the city limits of our atmosphere?
Why do we really ask both a confidant and a total stranger "how are you"?
But more importantly,
why do we always accept "fine" as a desirable answer?
How can five hours feel like five minutes?
And, sometimes, something in our universe will ask us back,
"are you still there"?
dear anxiety ,
you make me feel like my shoes are full of cement and it seems like your goal is to stop me from walking. i hate how you make me forget the next words im going to say , you got everybody thinking iam a fool , forgetful , and now looking stupid. you make me want to cry its like you only trick my eyes to flood when im happy . you make me question lifetimes and existences . you make my eyes tired and often you make me drift off into the forms of lights around me so i can daydream. you make it hard to breathe and im wondering why ... why if my lungs are so healthy then why do they constantly feel like they are collapsing on me? you try so hard to be my best friend each and every day . you constantly make it hard for me to ask simple questions when i appear out in society and now you got me thinking about what others are going to say and think about me. They might think " She's so emptied minded" "A blonde ***** with no brains" You make me feel like i'am nobody. Like fragments of me don't matter because they are all very much flawed anyways. I like to think being already me is perfect enough and i know i'll grow on things that need improvement but you have me questioning every dam thing about me and everything that i do so it starts to feel that nothing i do will be good enough. you gave me jello legs and twitchy fingers with palms that sweat way too much. i want to be at ease and flow freely so i can sway with confidence when i walk. i need to know that everything will be okay and you scream in my face NO IT WILL NOT you slap me across my cheeks saying why do you even try! look what you just did! why did you just say that! you freeze me up while i watch everyone else look at me being a freak. i wonder what people see when looking at me break out like that , my own fidgets that they cant understand , i let anxiety do its thing and my fingers play away. it goes away but knows im always dreading for the next time it comes back , yes im waiting. till next time anxiety
a poem about my experience with anxiety
All of it
All of it
Everything I do
Everything I feel
It's all for you
So please say yes
And I swear.
I'll do my best
tapping... pages whispering...
someone holds in a cough
as the air tenses around us
I hold my breathe as we listen
to a teachers droning noise
buzzing facts and figures
a quite conversation... a laugh...
I rock back and forth nervously
hoping beyond all it wasn't for me
taking notes my hand shakes
are my fellows judging my writing
can they see how crooked it is
shuffling... a chair squeaks...
I could chew the skin off of my thumb,
Or force my teeth to bite my tongue.
I could eat my lip til it goes numb,
Or press the air out of my lungs.
I could scratch my arms until they bleed,
Or dig my nails into my cheeks.
I could swallow copper I don’t need,
Or hold my throat til I can’t speak.
I could break my bones to set me free,
Or feel my crimson tingly seethe.
I could rub my eyes til I can’t see,
Or exhale deep so I can’t breathe.
The violence fills my mouth with cherries,
Ever sweeter than before.
A taste unlike all the other berries,
And I salivate for more.
You may have to read this a few times to understand what I mean, however I encourage you to interpret it your own way.
Stretching an arm to his bedside table,
he clasps an object with his hand.
He raises it up, and with a click of a button
a source of light forces his pupils to constrict.
The light in the form of his cellphone screen read:
Friday, May 13
On the bottom half of the screen was nothing (0 new text messages) but a picture of three smiling figures in a foreign land.
And in one swift motion he flicks his wrist—
the phone makes a thud, ten feet away.
There was no use for it
when hundreds of his texts and calls were answered by the wind.
It may or may not have been four days since the incident that caused water from a faucet to seep through his eyes. His face now pressed against a blanket,
a scream pierces through the four corners of the bedroom.
The faucet water now found its way to his lungs
as he huffed and puffed. And huffed. And puffed.
As to what happened to his parents, he neither knew nor hoped to know.
4:19 A.M. It’s once again time to try counting sheep.
Not inspired by true events.
was the noise
not aiding my
how to approach
how to not
easy to fuel
easier to shrink away
will leave it like this
just for today
no one will miss.
speed way faster
as I draw my step
no use of any prep.
As I am back
where I was before,
feeling far worse
as I close the door
I'll try tomorrow again.
he runs and runs
away from invisible enemies,
settles for a wide street corner eventually
enters heavily gasping a small café.
the abdominals are ripped from all the coughing.
the swiftly waitress realizes that,
as he orders a cup of black coffee.
she asks him, if it was a fine sporting day,
with a wide, plainly sinister smirk.
confused as he was, he gives her an absent nod,
in hope to leave him alone and serve that **** coffee.
at least he found an excellent spot
covered on a stakeout for his own death.
the street on the left, called Void Street,
seems pretty occupied
but shows no sign of the ambitious hitmen.
on his right lies Paradise Avenue,
emptied and distilled of silence
still nervous he bites his fingers,
although no nails are attached to them anymore
so he ***** the angst dry
like a skint man does with the tip of his last wrinkled cigarette,
that he found in one of his forgotten jacket pockets
safe space now,
only to have his throat cut
Thank you for reading.
I’m not sure why I cry
when I should be asleep
It’s dark out and I try to be soothed by rain
But no peace comes to pacify the pain
I’m not sure if you’re the reason why
My heart hurts and my thoughts are too deep
But I overthink more than I should
Over and over
And I’m anxious over events that don’t take place
And I’m desperately longing to see your face
Even though I can’t take a breath or fade away
So many thoughts and yet nothing to say
And as I continue to cry, stuck miles away
With so many thoughts and yet nothing to say.
an old one
I tried to write a poem on anxiety