(December 31, 2022)

If it weren’t for

the irony of spending

so much time in your own head,

which otherwise might be

a pleasant enough location,

a magazine of hopes and dreams and standup routines,

but has become a prison

without walls, where the warden’s

creativity and imagination

turn every single tingle,

twitch, and twinge

into cause for alarm,

prompting one to run back inside, seeking shelter

where the fire is,

then maybe anxiety wouldn’t be

so difficult to bear,

and share,

and wear like a yellow smudge of fearfulness and futility and frustration that

has you seeing red and feeling blue.

At least that’s my impression.

Don’t get me started on depression.

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