Anxiety

It pounds at the walls of your

skull, it beats, beats, beats

against the cage. Your body

holds, strong, keeping it 

within. Being realistic it’s

intrinsic to the way you 

think, a broken link in

your psyche, likely to 

bring you down just when

you reach your highest

point. 

What’s the point in looking

up? Up to you I suppose,

to make those decisions,

that derision can’t belong

to anyone else, they can’t 

hear it, you have to be too 

near to understand. My hand

trembles and I hold it tight,

a pocket of air, the last

semblance of sense, deep

within an ocean of immense

fucking stupidity. I wish

I could just leave.