In thaw of anxiety, for the shapeless shapes in my brain

I am consumed by fear

I breathe out smoke not air

I feel my acid reflux has gone way overwhelmed

my chest running

all too compressed 

I feel somewhere where my blood flows a bomb 

is blown

It blocks my airways

I’m bloody dehydrated

My mind’s so big full of riddles from someone else’s maze

I can’t touch; can’t fart

I think they would stare

at my greatest fear

freaking out in my brain.

trapped in a bread store pressed down

and suffocated.

He could rip me to bits, I’m his slave

weaker than a thread when pulled so be it

They said count to 100 sheep,

infinite questions my tongue wants to urinate

like a tapping of a pencil,

the sound of a fan, 

three clicks of your fingers,

it swirls and twirls me down to a hole

this is insane!

Locked in a box with a razor on my back

unmoved, disgruntled

the box with its wall less walls

I’d like to turn off my thoughts

could I make it that far?

to hold my platter of splatter green and hazy painting mind?

or

do you think i constantly do something wrong,

a visit to the doctor is fine?

 

 

Not from the magazine

” She is not a woman of the magazine.

She’s an all time mess of doodled paint; a candidate for a three-fold pain in the anal.

She’s never a dream woman, oh dear, this is not to break her heart.

She’s a rouge in a boyfriend shirt’s clothing

The best men actually ‘friend zone’ her, they said, “she’s only a good person.”

She chases her own hero every 10 years but other men accuse her like that of a restless child.

Although she belongs to a world where magazines are made

and photos seen on Instagram with a short caption that says ‘like me’ coz I’m fishing for compliments, oh but,

She’s out of that league. 

If she could make you hold onto the edges of a twinkling star, she’d make you feel you’re a dangling beauty of the evening light.

Herself is her own character in a novel, and if you’re not careful, 

She can write you as one of her notable characters. 

 

 

 

 

The Cycle

First a surface is new and slippery

Next the floor becomes weary

Third my bed fills empty

They like those scream folly

 

And then another time,

My uncle’s blade get soaked; brittle

He likes it cold and wet

As time crawls quickly

 

What then is necessity?

When dust and dirt convulse?

Certainly, as Time crawls quickly

Worms and rusts overwhelm immensely!