Panic Attack
Your thumb, pressed against the void between your rib-cage,in a desperate attempt to calm down.
You tell yourself it is a good distraction.
Useless.
Your heart pounds against it as if it does not want to be there
And it's not the heart's fault
You don't want to be there either.
You worry they can tell, that you're not really there
that your eyes might show the confusion you're dealing with.
So you look for the door that leads anywhere but there,
just so you can be alone, and find a distraction to blame it all on.
And you do,
and then you're fine.
Only you're not.
Cause the place you seek does not have four walls and a door,
nor is it a beautiful sight of nature.
The place you're dying to find is a purpose.
A purpose that is out of sight.
You're calm now.
And you know it will not last.
Because it will be back again, for as long as life keeps being a distraction.
What from?
I wish I knew. But I will find out.
Poetry by zana
Read 708 times
Written on 2015-05-07 at 18:32
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