It’s almost hilarious how
The way anxiety has corrupted
Is so closely related to the process
Of writing poetry.
My personal terrors,
Have shaped the way I think about
The disagreement of my back’s muscles
With the passenger seat,
The way the landscape outside the window
Alternates between fields of corn,
And gardens, so tiny, they go by unnoticed
If their appearance is co-occuring,
With the eyes squinting against the sun.
About the taste of promethazine
On the tongue, and the following
Soft palatal numbness.
The breath as the anchor that fixes
My mind to the body,
When it unapologetically gets lost again.
Paying attention to the details,
A double-edged lifeline that pulls me
Out of the clutches of anxiety,
And with which I reel in the
“what to write about”, that dwells
In the midst of the mundane.