I drank the ink poured down the sink then sank a little lower I wish to think with lenses pink I’ve wisdom of a knower But I confess I am a mess as shown within my stanza So I shall dress my deep distress with adjective organza
Tailor Fit
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Tag Archives: anxiety
Do not think after midnight
I gave the voices your tongue to hear their words in the voice of another. How differently I hate myself when the recital of criticism takes on a separate tone. The ex-plosives are missed as your snipes detonate in an uglier timbre. The richness of that trill is taken as an ever renewing esteem tithe, gradually depreciating my self-belief’s valuations so the bare bones can be given back to the earth cost free. Would the words you made me delete have made any difference? They’ll greet me when I finally give into the bitterness and momentarily regret all I hadn’t the chance to regret before.
Evening Oil Smudge
Drops of boiled beeswax poured into the lap of eventide fixed up the familiar face Soul syphoned as tax with lips forever widely untied yet draped in smatters of lace Bright acrylic lacs whispering old words that formed and dyed a novel paint palate case Dry anticlimax from feeble watercolor tears cried at night end's bitter disgrace Broken into scraps less than what it could and would provide more than all it could erase
Hope Whispers
Just when early fear arrives, famished: feasting on abundant insecurity, hope whispers loudly to break free! Destroy the doubt.
#achieveyourgoals
Bent toes cling to the surface that might fall. Do I stand upon the ground or the wall? Swaying in gentle breeze I brace to plummet fast, but land with grace if this dream deems me unworthy. Clouds stream with torrential echoes of doubt that nourish my inner progressions drought. The grip of untrodden steps fails - I wait to land upon the shales But fall upward into the stars. Free floating among the weightless moonlight, I look below with more pleasant hindsight. I was bound in scared appeasement - Now fear suffers a bereavement as I cross into my own light.
Imperfect
Intuitively I knew to let it go before My mind fixated on it too much. Perhaps I could distract myself Entirely from my own insecurity that's Reaching it's clawed hand up From the pits of my stomach to scratch my Esophagus as though it's itching. Controlling the impulse is pointless because - Take that apostrophe and that space - I'm Perfect
The Poet Armistead 