The Way It Is

A poem about a nervous system that spends a lot of it’s time working overtime, despite it’s friendly surroundings

Here comes the recurring theme

Tastes like anxiety

Confounds me

I’m sitting softly

cushioned in friendship

surrounded by security

But my pulse leaks

indelible ink

from chest to fingertip

Only time can wash away

the invisible –mostly–

unwanted –absolutely–

rush and crush of awareness

Under my breath

I catch the sound

of reassurance

What have we here?

Oh, to touch the crest

of calm and clear

and sail to ground

on peace-soaked clouds

But, instead, the blood

is hot and loud

in my veins

My tongue too quick,

masking unease

with chatter

It doesn’t matter

It’s just

the way it is