I have seen so many write their words on anxiety. Some seem genuine; some just seem like fake drama queens. I had been suffering from anxiety since long and I wanted to put it in my words someday but I just couldn’t even if I tried until I just randomly bickered and bickered and wrote a...

Rant of a hyper anxious writer

Ever remember the first time you masturbated? Well I remember it. It gave me a different feeling, a sense of euphoria. I felt that this is definitely something which I will do again later.

And I got this same feeling when I wrote my first poem. I got a different feeling, a sense of euphoria with that childlike poem scribbled on rough paper. I felt that this is definitely something which I will do again later.

Time has passed and I have grown since. I am not a lover; I am not a fighter.

As of now, you can say I am a product of teenage angst, and an anxiety struck writer.

And I get it that these days, everyone is a teenage rebel, everyone is a so-called writer, and everyone has anxiety. It’s hard to figure who is real, who is fake.

Lately it feels like everyone is craving for attention, just like the birthday kid craving for his presents and the birthday cake.

So, I admit I’m troubled; I guess I am having my man period. Hell, I am freaking anxious.

My brain is getting loose; it is breaking mental sanctions.

So, the people say “Oh my gosh! You are anxious? Are you getting cynical? Are you getting clinical?”

I say “I don’t know. Just don’t make it sound too critical.”

I’m anxious about tomorrow. I’m anxious about next week, next month, next year.

Anxious about the fact that would this great big world read what I write, would my words move them, would my words survive even when I disappear.

I am getting cranky. I’m a mess. I am turning into an emo rapper’s fantasy. All I am doing is procrastinating and fuss,

Fussing that I am not achieving the purpose of my life but then I ask myself “Do I really know my purpose?”.

I mean I want to be the next big writer but how would I be the next big writer if I am hardly writing a word on a person, a place and a thing?

I don’t wish to be lonely and lovesick but how would that happen if I can settle for nothing and just end up having a fling?

To calm down this hyper anxious beast inside me, someone shot me a tranquilizer. And so, I slept, I slept having these dreams of mine.

Now it’s up to me whether I want to make those dreams real or just be the poster boy of anxiety every darn time.

I feel I am not anxious anymore so the question is “What now?”. I have nothing to overthink about, nothing to fuss about and nothing to get dramatic about.

Ugh, I’m bored now. Maybe I should post a cliched non-accurate depression story on Instagram and maybe put up an emo song on Sound Cloud.

Damn! What’s even happening to me? I say that I am breaking down,

And the next moment even I am acting like one of those normie clowns.

Help me, help me, I am breaking down.

My insides are crying “Save me now!”.

Help me, help me I am breaking down.

My insides are crying “Save me now!”.

#anxiety #poetry #fear #unknown #sad

He lived for trees,

For saving them, nurturing them.

He was so obsessed that he asked the forest spirits “Can I talk to trees please?”

He wished that he could hear out every branch, every leaf, every stem.

His wish granted indeed,

And he hoped he will hear all merry stuff from his tree friends.

But all he heard were their groans from being cut, the pain when they bleed.

With all this modernization going on, this wasn’t Eden anymore; trees were having a gloomy end.

The voices carried on,

He tried not to listen but they did follow.

He cried as the other trees cried; not every green place was merry like his lawn.

So in a fit of desperation and helplessness, he finally cut off his ears and died in pain, only to wander aimlessly in the forests now like he’s the ghost of Sleepy Hollow.