My anxiety renders me useless at times,
yet the irony is,
it comes from wanting too much for myself.
Uncertainty clouds my mind,
and rips me off from the root of reality.
I float like a ghost,
in corridors of my own,
a stranger to those I call my own.
Anxiety comes from having clipped wings,
from wanting too much,
yet at times, the most I can do,
is imagine what could be done
what I should have done, how I should have done,
and more time passes by,
and no respite shines my side.
I come to a conclusion to quieten my hasty mind,
and it complies,
until it gathers enough energy,
to construct a new tangent,
and suck the remaining fuel,
I need to sustain my life.
Fears, insecurities dog my mind.
I can’t retrace them.
Oh why am I lost inside my own mind?
Who do I seek for help,
when I can’t even determine,
what snack to order tonight?
I may be surrounded by people,
but am always alone,
tired of traversing the path I have etched on my mind,
round and round, energy spent and no progress to be shown.
What do I do now
when all I do in my haste leads downhill,
like a line of dominoes?
What else can I do then
than let the storm pass
and etch my worries
on pieces of paper.
And this is my answer to those,
who say poetry is futile.
I beg to differ,
as it has stopped me from
destroying myself from inside.