shall I tell you the way it feels,
the swampy bog of worry and panicked thought?
to stand knee deep in it is both a comfort and dread
here, in the center, no one can touch me, see me, criticize me
it is me and this repugnant slime,
a manifestation of the worst of me.
and so it sucks me down until I realize
I cannot breathe and there is no one
and the dread is overwhelming.
It is ungratefulness, they say,
that which makes up this clamorous quagmire,
this insidious morass which demands so much of me,
and becomes envious if I dare try and leave.
If I try to climb out of its maw to rest upon its
it redoubles its effort, it bubbles and spits
it reminds me no one can befriend me, how could they?
and regurgitates my flaws, my wrongdoing,
my sins, upon its abhorrent banks.
And I desist in my resistance,
and slip slowly again into the gurgling mire.
Comforted that none will see me sink.