Anxiety is like watching a movie where
you’re the lead actor and each scene gets worse –
countless calamities occur, eventually ending in
one big tragedy – meanwhile, you sit alone
in the dark theater and worry and cry,
your muscles tense, your stomach sick,
‘till you can’t breathe no more.
(Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash)
I step inside Mrs. Dalloway’s mind:
it twists, turns – I’m lost in the maze,
as she spills thoughts on the page –
a link to her consciousness;
it’s a stream that overflows,
breaks embankments, floods my psyche
‘till I put the book down,
lest my mind goes manic and
doesn’t come back.
(Photo credit: A portrait photo of Virginia Woolf from Britannica.com).
Note: This poem was inspired by Mrs. Dalloway, the classic novel by Virginia Woolf. I’m reading it now, and I love it, but I’ve had to put it down a couple of times because I felt like it was triggering a manic episode.
The end is closer than we think,
the wild-eyed prophet says.
He, who has spent time in psych wards,
sees visions of hellfire at corner stores.
What are these images of demons and flashes of inspiration?