John Anderson Poet Tanka

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The Despair Tax

Too much to do looms
like storm clouds above my desk,
heavy with despair
I stare into candle flames
hearing deadlines gnash their teeth.

Within a bubble,
I call avoidance self-care,
hide beneath soft screams;
but my body knows the truth—
comfort loves hiding away.

Encased I feel safe
until the walls grow too close,
air thins, stinks with fear
each new unopened letter
becomes another locked jaw.

Outside, people march
with tired hope in hands and heart,
though bruised, still awake
finding cure for helplessness
inside the struggle itself

I start one small task,
cross one inhibition off;
suddenly my lungs
remember how breathing works
when action enters the room.

Perhaps I’ll own less,
perhaps the world stays unfair,
perhaps love still fails;
yet facing fire head-on
makes the spirit stand up tall.

There’s a despair tax
for caring deeply enough
to keep fighting back;
but the truest form of relief
is to turn around, face it.

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