Heart Rate

My heart races, it’s always racing.

Like a high powered, turbo fuelled sports car or a chaotic sports day – Racing.

My chest thuds like an axe cutting into a motherly oak, nature sighs and wishes

The axe blunt.

But my heart rate is higher than a fresher in a nightclub, and the tree won’t fall.

It just takes the axe to its core, winces

And sheds its leaves. This anxiety,

a mad woodsman with his axe, batters you, cuts you down. You are

Just a worthless tree, good for no more than being in the way.

But the funny thing about leaves is they always grow back.

Yes, after its been cut, it doesn’t seem it, but those leaves will soon be regrown and,

Once more, reach for the heavens.