Anxiety
Is
Anxiety
is…
The
second hand of a clock,
Ticking
faster and faster,
Until
it is only a blur.
It
is the minute hand,
Racing
around the clock face,
As
it counts the seconds.
It
is the hour hand,
Counting
the hours like minutes as they pass.
Anxiety
is…
Staring
at an empty page,
Begging
it to fill in,
It
is the irony of seeing the vivid pictures,
Perfectly
formed in your own mind,
But
the inability to find the right words,
And
the fear you will write the wrong ones,
So
instead you write nothing.
Anxiety
is…
Hearing
the same words,
One
hundred times.
Then
suddenly,
You
no longer understand them.
It
is the inability to comprehend,
Anything
around you.
And
the fear you will slip away,
Farther
than you already have.
Anxiety
is…
Begging
someone, anyone,
For
help.
It
is admitting your deepest, darkest thoughts
To
a doctor,
And
being told,
You
are in it for the drugs.
Anxiety
is…
Coloring
perfectly inside the lines,
But
with a white crayon,
For
fear if you use color,
It
might bleed.
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