Quarantine

There’s an uneasy chatter stalking silently through the breeze.
Ominous whispers are whipping in the wind.
Ancient flocks of fear have perched in all the trees.
They can’t believe how silent their cities have been.
All of their eyes are hiding behind glass,
Concealed behind curtains, and peeking curiously,
Hoping not to see it;
That silent specter stalking through the streets,
Haunting all their dreams.
Their ominous imaginations are finding phantoms,
Hiding, in the corner of their vision.
Skittering fears are tickling their eyelids as they sleep.
Frail, seedling thoughts of the future
Have found fallow ground in the fields of hope.
And I’m at home,
Having a smoke, and writing a poem.

Mania

I can feel a tension building; a familiar tension.

The tingle on the back of my skull.

The anxiety.

The anger.

The frustration with how much of this process of living I don’t understand.

The confusion of why I’m here, what I’m searching for, and why I can never be happy.

It’s a powder keg and embers are floating everywhere.

I get like this sometimes.

Sometimes I can’t push down the questions, the doubts, and the fears.

Every time this happens, I know. I know there’s potential.

Potential for a lightning strike.

A thunderous explosion.

A lapse of reason.

I have to weather the storm.

I just have to wait for it to pass.

Play dead, don’t move, don’t think.

Lest my presence be known to the dark thoughts prowling past.

The monstrous realities that exist in this plane.

Don’t even breathe.

Fear of Roses

Why do you frighten me so?

You are but a delicate rose.

Your thorns have withered and fell,

and yet still,

I dare not risk your touch.

Your scent is a subtle, distinguished beauty;

a stimulating sensation.

Your fragile elegance begs of me

quiet admiration.

I could run my fingers across your leaves,

and watch you for hours, swaying in the breeze,

but plucking you, and keeping you, It seems obscene.

I fall to my knees and shrink.

In the shadow of your form, I fear disappointing you

more than ever before.

One day I will pluck you, and place you in a vase.

I’ll sit at a table, and watch you whither with age,

but I know today is not the day.

I sit at my desk, the air thick with regret

That you’re swaying in the breeze and not asleep in my bed.