My walls will cave in (just like placards stacked up horizontally fall back with the wind) along with every wave of anxiety-
Right then, I will fall short of words, or rather lose the intelligence of speaking-
Goosebumps, butterflies, shivers and my heart dipping into the cold Pacific won't just be defense mechanisms.
My heart will appear to jolt awake and then dead repeatedly by the society I put myself in;
I will feel electricity running around in my veins, often sparking out of my eyes as the salty tears that trigger short circuits
The ones they say could be caused by the heat-
Indeed- but it's also the cold, the wind, rain and the snow
Words like unknown, unforeseen and anonymous manifesting and getting under my skin- make my jaws quiver and heart dip.

Often my gut nudges me to stand and to speak and to, for once, not fear an omen before I deliver a speech,
But when I speak, though my mouth moves to enunciate what I remembered from the paper,
And as I attempt to collect and reflect my confidence through my features,
My fingers tremble as I try to fit them into my fists behind my back-
These legs shiver behind the pedestal, hidden under slacks.
For people think these mere trifles shouldn't ******* the silhouette that I bear,
Fear of the unknown? Don't be scared, scared!
My nerve ends nervously make my fingers dance as I attempt to provide them a temporary occupation-
'Cross your fingers, close your fists,
Pretend to text, you're better than this.'

So dear me, oh dear me I am sorry-
I am sorry for constantly holding you back;
Sorry for all the chances I did not let you take, all because
I sometimes tend to diverge my faults out as through a prism,
And have always been someone who can never jeopardize her pursuit for perfection.

Sorry, for the seeds of my anxiety have given birth to the roots of my skepticism-
For I paint doubt over every pretty scenery you etch in my mind,
My inhibitions and myself, thinking things over, rewind, rewind.

If I were Rapunzel my anxiety would be the tower that holds me encapsulated- a hostage;
With no demands whatsoever, only a plain, ruthless, endless need to cause damage.

girls with buzz cuts singing along
to beach house
the air thick with eccentricity
and anarchy
their painted nails beginning to chip slowly
like the minds of the older folks that are
too engrossed with their holy books

smart mouths and their pretentious words

they make you want to kneel and pray
but you know other things that you would rather
be doing with your hands
like
reaching for your dreams
or punching some guy's face for telling you to
smile, pretty lady

and

boys with long locks crying to
armageddon
the blue sea spilling out from their red eyes
their shirts splattered with distress and
confusion

mostly from people who are built like big boulders
and war tanks

too upset to see one of them crying
but you know other things that you would rather
be doing with your anatomy
like
building homes with pretty gardens
or sewing a dainty dress for your niece

she wore her scorn

as tempting as

her little black dress

venus fly trap

'Once upon a time' and 'Many years ago';
I begin with an idle thinkers' reminisce-
A past, flowing into the future
As a waterfall cascades down the valley
I am delicately delivered,
Intricately fed into the senses of a curious listener-
I am words, sometimes arranged into a ballad,
Sometimes haphazard and tragic;

I'm known by speech and the word of mouth,
My identity laced into the syllables that people whisper,
And sometimes it slips into the conversation out of the blue;
I wonder and wonder,
As I find myself moulded into verses that don't rhyme
I begin to question the veracity of my existence
Dubious as I am, I find-
myself compiled in wrinkled volumes of pale history books,
Sometimes constructively reconstructed, from my toe up to my hood
Fabled into gossips, garnishing lunch and dinner;
My world reduced into words- sometimes a saint, other times a sinner.

I find bits of me scattered around in peoples' lives, bigger stories,
But not a minute passes
When I don't loath or despise,
The shallowness of perception
As my depth is undermined.

Unknown and unfortunately misunderstood,
My story carries on and on-
Masked by words that fail to define,
Who, what and why I am
Slowly ageing and spent away by time.

Alas, I lie untouched:
Abysmal, surrounded by darkness-
Alone, having become
the perfect manifestation of what they'd thought of me,
My words are fiction and so am I,
And this,
this is my story.

(https://theextrainextraordinary.wordpress.com/)

Isn't there a better way?
O'er this snakeskin shedding,
Than this slow emotional death
Looking for cartharsis
Never to be?

Please, make me, me.
Release me from the birdcage,
And tell me where to dream.

Ah, I look for a tool of my own,
Somewhere buried in the dirt,
Because I am a plow without purpose,
A sword in peacetime.

Sheathed, but mostly lost.
Meaningless, but not wandering,
and so there is no journey,
no art.


Stagnation. Ah.
And a slow morose breath.
Just one long, inhale
For no greater cosmic purpose,
Than the exhale, fleeting.

What a beauty, she said in my agonizing reverie.
Smiling, turning, leaning,
Oyasumi, Good morning.
And the sun's lights ne'er did beam.
The morning stayed dark.
I died, there
heart still beating.

i. The soft hum of someone playing Claire de Lune next door and you putting your hair up and exposing your neck makes me feel like I am in a film so perfectly made I  just want to capture every single movement of you and keep them in the safest and sanest corner of my brain.

ii. You say it's such a divine night; I say I'm so sure that even the
Devil's knees would buckle when he hears you speak.
I noticed the fireflies are lighting up themselves even more brightly.
I bet it's because they are trying to outshine you, but they will all fall dead even before they do so.

iii. There's a marching band inside my chest and for some reason tonight feels like Christmas, New Years and my birthday all at once.
The other day my mom said she thinks I am getting better.
I said, yes, mom, my old self finally decided to come home.

Time will tell,
If it was me or him,
But right now everything's swell,
At least that's the dream;

Before it happens,
The next chapter of this crazy joyride,
I can't help but hope we'll remain friends,
And not let things sour due to pride;

When it's time,
I hope I'll find him divine,
The way he once made me rhyme,
But until then we'll leave it to fate to entwine;

Well this is it,
The truth we've been waiting for,
Will it be a trick or a treat,
Could it be we're a bore and love, a chore?

@byizn