You
Were the human embodiment
Of all my fears:
The manifestation
Of all my monsters.
Yet,
If you came knocking
I’d open the closet-
Pull up the bedcovers-
Turn back to the dark mirror-
And invite you back in.

He asked her what it's like living with anxiety.

She smiled sadly, "It's a never-ending pulse-race. Like knowing you don't want to jump off a cliff but not being able to talk yourself down from it.

Your fears take on a nebulous, unidentifiable form that tightens around your throat and incapacitates you.

There is no calm. No peace. Only the edge of a very strained thread."

Well,
after you write enough
and try to publish for long enough
you just notice it
There is no such thing as
good
or
bad
poetry.
There's just poetry to which people
can relate
and poetry to which
people can't relate.
And that makes all the difference
in the world.