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The Panic Attack of A Poet: What It’s Like & How I Get To The Other Side

It rises up through vulnerable temples,

Fizzing like a poured soda,

Taking a tour of an endless drop,

An ever darkening ride to a past time.

Shit, I think,

My fingers seething with adrenaline,

A never-ending heart race,

Palpable like heartache.

I know what is to come,

And I am certain this is the uninvited guest.

Nevertheless, a trying defense, my mind mending fences:

If an open sea can carry its waves,

So can I and sleep soundly in graves.

I turn around to meet the fear,

One so dark depth disappears.

I am hurled through this vacuum,

Will it ever end? Desperation then thickly spreads,

Trapped in the pores of uneasing breads.

Just when my thoughts try to transcend,

A river of pain seeps out of my lens.

 

Don’t worry, it will be over soon, a faraway thought suddenly reminds.

 

The words mix like water and oil,

Hopelessly stirring forever and ever.

 

The words mix like water and sugar,

Hopefully stirring for better and better.

 

The words mix like water and syrup,

A seamless stirring of thought and spirit.

 

This is a homecoming. You are here, and you are home.

There isn’t anywhere you need to be, and there isn’t anyone you need to see.

Your source of comfort is simply there, in you, for you, all the time.

It is unlimited, and it is specifically yours.

In no way does it impose on or interfere with your free will.

It is unconditional. It is you. It is love.

 

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