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Poetry: Turmoil

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Today, the idea of a good life appears to be

A distant dream,

As for the past fortnight I have felt,

And still do feel, so much on edge,

That I am unable to think clearly

Where I am going or what I am saying.

I have felt so overwhelmed from worrying

That I have been unable to eat or drink,

And struggled like fury to relax or get off to sleep

And climb above an ever-growing heap

Of crap, beneath which I feel as though I am suffocating,

Where I feel exhausted and slowly dying.

A good life to me would be one free

From inner-turmoil, i.e., the chains of depression and shackles of anxiety

Which, today, paralyse my thoughts

And bind me to hour-upon-hour of despair;

A good life would afford me much-needed respite

An end to stumbling or wallowing in darkness, rather than walking in light.


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