Tag Archives: Anxiety

Approach Anxiety – Power Metal Version

My feelings unspoken

Are like chains unbroken:

Restraining. Containing

The beast locked within.

To have them be heard…

A heart turned to word…

Uncurtained, uncertain

Of where to begin.

I know I can’t fight

The coming of night.

I don’t know what’s right

When I hear you coming.

Who knows what I’ll say

When night turns to day.

I’ll continue this way

Into the land of numbing.

I look in your hazel eyes

Hoping this feeling dies

But the beast smells a feast

And my heart needs to roar.

Steel bars start to bend

And I cannot contend

So I do what feels true:

Let the beast break down the door.

I knew not to fight

The coming of night.

I did what felt right

When I heard you calling.

Who knows what I’ll say

When night turns to day.

I’ll continue this way

Though it feels like falling.

The cage opens wide,

Lets the monster outside.

The beast is released

And it pounces on you.

But claw scratches steel;

How can this be real?

Could it be, just like me,

There’s a beast inside you?

I welcome our fight

In the coming of night.

Can’t know that I’m right

But it’s worth the gamble.

Who knows what I’ll say

When night turns to day

But I no longer hide

For lack of preamble.

Leave a comment

Filed under Lyrics

Not Based On A True Story At All…

Here I am and in my prime,

No need for fear, no lack of time,

My IQ’s high, my flaws are few,

But there’s one foe I’ve yet to slew.

Somehow I feel my knees go weak

If, to a stranger, I must speak.

I can solve equations in my head

But not control the sense of dread

That spreads from pate to waist to toes

When I must speak to Jane or Rose.

I know Shakespeare, Austen, Keats,

But not wherefore my heart so beats.

Perhaps I’ve read too many tomes

To mix with non-y-chromosomes?

Leave a comment

Filed under Poems

What Is A Sunday?

if Monday was productive

It would be Tuesday instead.

If Tuesday were called “Hump day”

Maybe we’d want to get out of bed.
If the end was in sight on Wednesday

We would enjoy it more.

If after Thursday was a weekend

It would not be such a snore.
Saturday’s a Friday

During which we needn’t work,

But Sunday is what Saturday

Would be if it were a jerk.
On Sunday we do nothing

Just like on Saturday,

Except our nothing is interrupted

By our freedom sneaking away.
We’re filled to our proverbial brim

With end-of-weekend anxiety.

That is what a Sunday is,

Or maybe that’s just me.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poems