The words feel heavy now,
enjambing inside my insides,
this does not feel natural.
I feel like a thesaurus that’s had all their
words/pages cut out and
have been turned into some fancy DIY
project where you turn your book into
a box to stash your weed,
or a purse,
maybe an art instillation.
I’m frozen, waiting for the syllables to fly out of my
fingertips.
I have done this to myself,
deciding that busy means value.
But, busy is a cop-out,
a coup that infiltrates
every conversation and moment of my day.
This stress could break me,
but I asked for it.
No more calm on the outside voice
when everyone knows you’re panicking.
I am panicking.
It feels better to just say that out loud.
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