This poem was the second poem I wrote for my Intro to Creative Writing class this year, and it is basically encasing what it usually feels like for me when I'm experiencing an anxiety attack.
A Wave of Disquiet
The moment of serenity is
broken once you’ve been struck
by your world encasing you with its
overwhelming standards. “You will never
be good enough,” it roars,
“You will never be enough,” it howls, and
your chest becomes an ever so
rapidly closing cage, your lungs and heart
pushing on all sides of the shrinking space.
You become dizzy, thoughts as harsh as
a frozen tundra whipping and whirling
round and round your mind. It will never
shut up.
Quiet. All you want is
quiet. Please, for all that is
Holy and Sacred. Someone, anyone;
you reach out with shaky and brittle hands. For
that beautiful and
wonderous quiet, like a tidal wave to
banish
the boisterous sounds drumming into your
ears, pounding into your thoughts.
You howl and roar back at the world, you
pray to anyone who will listen.
You are not a religious being, but you
pray for escape from the overwhelming fear
in your tear stricken eyes.
Freedom into the quiet once again.
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About the Creator
Rebecca Lemke
Hello! I am a 25-year-old college student who majors in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing. Creating poems and stories have always been a passion of mine and I really hope sharing them with you all will help improve and shape me!
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley5 days ago in Fiction
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