The Liberator I Loathed
When I was small, so was she.
My hands deep in sand,
She'd be on the grass with a teddy
Snoring softly.
When dragons raged and damsels danced
To find space in my mind, worry wouldn't have chanced.
A little older, buses beeping,
My schedule drowning in ink,
She'd needle me with pencil points,
Stopping me from sleeping.
She insisted perfection would make my future brighter,
So I chased it and stress ignighted like fire.
Straight A's achieved, I walk in tassels
I thought she'd finally rest.
But higher pressure, higher stakes
Soon replaced my adolescent hassles.
She squeezed her way inside my bags
That ever-hungry vulture
As I walked away from comfy comprehension
To see another culture.
Fast she fed on fish and foreign letters
Shaking limbs and strangled breath
Heart flying, eyes crying,
I crumble inside her iron fetters.
One weapon left: two white pills
They hit their mark-my weapon kills.
Numb nerves
I thought would bring me peace.
But another fight began
With a solemn, beating drum
A world without passion
Diagnosed: depression
Struggling to get her back
I faught sickening withdrawls
But now that she's here
Depression takes a backtrack.
While still not pleasant
I need her to encourage my future to be better than my present.
Now she's growing.
I'll grow too.
I won't give her up again.
Gratitude comes from knowing.
She plays a vital role for me.
Thank you, Anxiety.
👁 7💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.