Look, poetry is not my strong suit but this happened. It won't mould into a piece of prose and I don't want it to.
Sometimes I worry that my heart will stop beating
When everything is silent and dark; when I lay just right and I can hear it thud
I worry that it will just
So I move
Shuffle until I can’t hear it anymore.
Then I worry that it will stop and I won’t even notice.
I wonder if that would be a peaceful way to die.
I wonder how long it would take before someone broke down my door to find me.
Sometimes I worry that my friends don’t love me as much I love them.
Texts not replied to; conversations with an abrupt end.
I worry that they grow tired of hearing me moan, of invites turned down because I can’t bear to leave the house that week, that month.
I don’t know if my friends love me as much as I love them and if it is my fault.
Sometimes I worry that I’ll never achieve the things I want to.
Hours spent in front of the laptop; not creating, just wasting.
Time where I could be doing more.
Not starting at all is easier than failing entirely.
It can’t be awful if it doesn’t exist.
Time passes and ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’ becomes ‘I’ll do it next week’ becomes ‘this month doesn’t count, it’s been a bad month’.
Guilt grows and mutates, anxiety crushes me under its weight. And still I do nothing.
I’m afraid that I’m not good enough to achieve the things I want to.
Sometimes I worry that people in the street are watching and judging me.
They have their own lives to get on with, they can’t be.
But I’m still afraid.
A laugh over the road, a coincidental glance.
So I walk with my head down, no eye contact. Walk too quick for anyone to stop me.
Slide through crowds, no touching, maybe no one will notice I am there.
Maybe I’ll stay at home this weekend. Next weekend. This whole month.
I wonder if my fear of being watched, being seen makes me self-centred.
Sometimes I worry that my parents would be disappointed in me if I told them everything.
Making excuses instead of explaining.
Telling them I’m happy on my own is easier than telling them anything at all.
If I tell them why I probably won’t have children, won’t have a wedding
Maybe they’ll think I’m broken.
I don’t want them to think I’m broken.
So I won’t tell them anything.
I’m afraid of what my parents would think of me if I told them.
Sometimes I worry that I worry too much.
But I can’t stop.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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