the moments in the anxious

Poems should just land on a page sometimes If I were an artist, I wouldn't be a careful one Today I'd throw paint at a room sized canvas Roll in it, maybe bite the edges... maybe not bite But I want to get out all this anxiety, expel it Decide I care about nothing... for a moment I fluctuate from being on top of the world How precarious I stand, loving a moment There's always a crash into obsolete, too much, not enough, just nothing at all Then I ride again This is a white knuckle ride It might be all over and done in the space of an hour Or last nearly a day, rarely longer But I'm so afraid to share it It's pointless and I'm pointless when I do I risk my whole self if I over explain It should become art, that's all that should happen Be bright white and black and I'll be no more than a dot Invisible in my torment but emerge after it With it painted, I presume that kind of emotion would be pretty good trapped in paint God, I need to lie down and levitate on the energy from the ground Not bushwhack through daily emotions The poem didn't land and I didn't levitate No paint was harmed in the making of this