At the hands of then dictator (Anxiety)

My heart is heavy.

It is a bomb planted inside me,

Ready to explode within the walls of my chest.

 

 

My chest is tight.

My lungs fail me.

And not a single breath escapes from the war zone I call my chest.

 

 

This war zone..

This war zone does not frighten the beautiful winged creatures that live in my stomach from attempting to flee from the war that is taking over my body.

 

 

I know this feeling all too well.

It is the warning of the unwanted dictator that rules the land I call my body. 

 

 

My brain...

My brain does not cease to wander in a multitude of directions despite being involved in a war with the dictator I call anxiety. 

 

 

Instead.. Instead my brain continues to wander, faster this time.

Dividing itself into millions, all wandering in a chaotic fashion.

They all roam loudly, all so loudly in an attempt to overpower the sound of the ticking bomb I call my heart.

 

 

My heart thumps louder.

My brain screams louder.

They scare my lungs and the oxygen comes slower.

The water pipes I call my eyes are victims..

Victims of a war they do not want to take part in.

They burst and I find myself drowning and drowning...

 

 

The bomb finally explodes in my chest like a volcano and sends the war zone into a series of explosive eruptions.

I begin to catch my breath and..

And I think it is finally over when the bomb almost peacefully settles back into its armour, waiting for the next command of the dictator. 

 

 

But this dictator is cruel.

It resets the bomb and suffocates my lungs even more tighter than before.

 

 

My heart,

My brain,

My lungs..

And every part of my body painfully work together in perfect synchrony at the hands of a conductor

Except.. Except they produce the most imperfect harmony,

All working selfishly in different keys.

 

 

I lay lifeless. A product of defeat.

I live less of a life when my tormentor is around

Yet I still feel more alive when it is there to bring me down

Because when it is there I feel.

 

 

I feel every inch of agony.

I face all my demons, I stare them all bravely in the eye as they make me cripple  in fear. 

But when it is gone I feel nothing.

I’m numb. Numb to all the pain the world hurls at me and unable to speak about the dictator that rules my body. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741