Closed Door

Unknown situation

 Increases anxiety.

What is inside?

Who is inside?



Unknown sounds,

And silence from within 

Add to the mystery.

Deep breath.

Knock softly.

Open the way

To the uncertain-

Step into the moment.



Can’t sleep.
Seeking diversion.
Awaiting peace, slumber.
Hopeful for a few hours of dreams.
Restless. Anxious. Hyper-vigilant.
Over conscious of the hours ’til dawn.
Tossing. Turning. Vainly tempting rest.
Mind wandering, thoughts racing,
The witching hour passes with
An imagination running amok
With images and thoughts over-running
All vestiges of reason and lingering sanity.

Social Anxiety

Mark the exits,
Plan escape routes.
Note bathroom locations
On the map in my brain.
Select solely aisle seats,
Stay close to the door.
Be prepared, always alert-
Ready to run if panic sets in.
“I just need some fresh air,”
A valid excuse to flee the masses
And retreat to a stall of sanctuary.
Among the silent porcelain sentries
I can breathe and put the splintered
Shards of my brain together once more.

Running Dreams

Running away from the
Creatures in my nightmares,
Breathlessly striving to
Stay one step ahead.
Darting aimlessly, zig zagging
To evade the faceless phantoms
That haunt me, hunt me down.
Startled, I awake on the back step,
Soaked in sweat, heart racing in my chest.
For one more night,
I have outrun my demons.

Racing Thoughts

Sleep eludes me, slips through my grasp-

rapidly firing neurons wage war

against my cerebral cortex

transforming my brain into a

battleground of synaptic explosions.

Disjointed thoughts tangentially traipse

through the trenches of a fractured mind-

the rhythm of the ceiling fan matches the

throbbing and humming inside my skull

and ideas flutter and flit through my mind

like a carefree band of shadows playing tag.

An idea turns into an itch, then into a flame

that burns at my sanity until I give in to the

thoughts that will not be silent until they are

satiated and tucked in with paper and ink-

witching hour poetry pours out from the

crevasses of the mind until the burning thoughts

are satisfied that they have been properly

tended to, and at long last, may permit me rest.

Sensory Overload

Fluorescent lights flicker, hum.

Watches beep, declare the time.

Pages flip and rustle like dead leaves.

People breathe, cough, sigh.

Fingers unzip, rummage, re-zip a purse.

Bright, loud clothes punctuate the room.

Air conditioners hum and blow.

Teacher drones in monotone, on and on.

Restless feet tap out syncopated rhythms.

Lips sip, slurp, swallow hot coffee.

The minute hand creeps toward twelve.

My mind splinters in a dozen directions.