It’s time I stop giving anxiety a baseless poetic mouthpiece.
The pangs of wanderlust are beasts I haven’t been spared from.
Tides come in like levis breaking
And recede like retreating thieves,
Having pillaged their target for necessary moments.
I want to travel to spread the beauty and good I’ve done well to harness,
But I’m helpless without others’ wheels to spin for me.
My space is uneven
And the space in my room and head is tangling worse.
Every minute spent cleaning is a minute gone.
Every minute spent writing is a minute at risk of shikva.
A loss due to forgetting- of thoughts or devices.
I tangle myself deeper, unable to move and soon breathe.
Dysphoria becomes the parting between oceans in my heart.
But one wire untangles, and the choir of scribbles
Unstick themselves from me like sprites running under the floor.
The universe has funny ways of reassuring.
I envision myself sitting, suspended in a pool of bubbling balm contained in granite,
Swathes of flickering reds and blues, running over the basin I sit weightless atop.
“May you continue to let your love and emotion overflow, until we can’t help but overflow in return.”
May the nuances of the chord I strike, containing millions of notes in constellation memories
Whisper like they roar.
The basin cracks, and fluid gushes out to hold the rest steady.
I can sustain this.
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy
Shall fill the cracks of my neurosis
And I shall breathe life like a dragon,
Making peace with my insignificance.