I have anxiety. Usually I keep it under wraps with little more than that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach cropping up. Sometimes it creeps through as a full body lock-up, making reacting difficult if not impossible. Rarely, like on Tuesday, I get full on panic attacks: hyperventilation, nausea, loss of feeling in my arms. Fortunately I was able to excuse myself to the bathroom and, instead of sinking further into despair, read this poem I had written on a napkin a few hours before hand. It was magic, I was able to function again after a couple of recitations (more likely reciting the poem required even breathing, which is itself an anxiety remedy). This is not a poem about anxiety, it just helped me with mine.
The Storm King
My spirit is a hurricane: molecular, transmogrified
A violent bout of thunder snow: ionized, electrified
Born of bitter, biting hyperborean gusts and oppressive cold
Of earthen peaks and overcast skies from the Mounts of old
A stretching, winding, rural wasteland makes up my domain
Pocked and scarred with civilized men that cower in my rain
The churning baltic coast Atlantic calls to me, my bones forevermore
Not unlike how that gaunt, ungainly fowl calls out to the pallid ghost of Baltimore
A skeleton of iron, wrought in the particles of the floor
A shattered pride and broken heart, once an open door
I am the Storm King; hear my agony and despair
My every hefty, weighty word hanging limply in the air
I run not to the defense of anyone, but to the agress of everyone
For mine are the bones of the earth, entombed in history-forgotten stone
The soul molecular becomes electrified, ionized, transmogrified
A pallid ghost of wrought iron that shall not be denied
Atlantic coasts, now calm and gray, are waiting for the storm
The crash and wake, the give and take of people now forlorn
I am the Storm King; stolid, carved from stone
Only I can brave the winds, me and me alone
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