I can barely lift my feet.
Lungs held in a vice of worry.
Frozen uproar hits my face
straight on.
I am a fish drowning on land.
Breath does not translate.
All energy is draining
out of me.
Snowstorm, inner storm.
Anxiety rising way beyond.
The taillight flickering
in and out.
Everyone is up ahead.
And yet the hill keeps rising.
I wish I were just tired
or a bit puffed.
That’s likely what they think.
That I am a drama queen.
Who just can’t handle
some discomfort.
I’m wading through treacle.
Longing for medication
that translates breath
into life.
Writing for Healing 