My mind is miles before me and I feel so out of body.
Repetitive in my actions obsessing
over a routine that does not seem to fit.
Chasing myself weighed down by my breath, the words that live on my lips refuse to be a part of written truth.
Anxiety whispers to me,
to believe what I see and forget faith is blind.
Often, the ability to sympathize with my mind is lost while criticism and insecurities give a dim light to the corners of it.
I stop writing to allow myself to feel,
only to end up questioning my words and the beauty they hold.
-AB
Wishful Thinking 
Leave a comment