The shadows hang from the off-white ceiling,

made of aged tiles with their black paint spatters,

held together by cheap metal supports,

never moving or changing much,

save for the almost-yellow glow age gives white.

 

The shadows seem to roll down the walls,

pressing their weight down upon my shoulders,

forcing me to question my lofty dreams and ambitions.

 

These are the days people don't talk about;

the words never add up;

that sinking feeling,

in the pit of your stomach;

a thick belt of lead,

limiting everything you do,

impossible to ignore.

 

Anxiety has a way of destroying a person;

the slowest erosion, 

a harsh wind scraping the bare, unprotected rocks,

and throwing all the soil away,

until vegetation is impossible;

nothing lives there anymore.

 

The wind refuses to give up its assault,

my rocky exterior is smooth like glass,

and just as transparent and fragile;

where has all my soil gone?