My heart drops, to my knees
kicked 20 yards to the goal.
Smack into a wall.
What to do; to be done
is to hide, suffocate my thoughts
never to be heard, said.
Quivers—fear struck me hard, bold
should I, my words sound as
I let the cat back, out to play.
I lack the train of thought: all,
mumbled, muffled, babbling
surrounding by bubbles of reflections.
Pushing me to the edge, anxiety;
do I jump, turn back, to let my
feelings, fly, to be shot down.
Every breath—harder, wheezing, coughing
up painful thoughts, daggers pierce
my throat. Paper cuts embrace my body.
Such pain, felt by all, consumed by some
overcome by many. Yet I left behind
the gate with growling pitbull at my feet.
Napping my ears, surrounded by voices.
Which way, how; the answer is I turn
again to ask—what to do, to be done.
