India Ink

A small bottle

A brush

 Heavy paper

  Covered in crevices

   And teeth

    

     Pressure

      It takes pressure

       To start something

        To open the bottle

      

        To put the brush down

 

       It needs to

         be controlled

                    Or else ink

                   Consumes the

                      Brush and paper

 

                                                                  The center

                                               It always starts in

                                                                      The center

                                                                 Pooling and

                                                          Eating through your

                                                                                    heart begins

                                                                                                racing and

 

                                                                                                     your lungs

                                                                                              whistle as they

                                                                                             try to grasp

                                                the air that

                                                       gave them

                                                              life but

 

                                                                      all that comes

                                                          out of my mouth

                                               Is the sputtering

                                                              suffocating

                                                          darkness wrapping

                                                                 its tendrils around

                                                        my neck and chest

 

                                                          as I scratch and

                                                                         tear at the creature

                                                                                              sitting on

                                                                                                     my ribs

 

then everyone says I

shouldn’t be so dramatic

about spilled ink

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Neftee

This is a great way of making a poem about anxiety. I like it.

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