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.
