Anxiety

Anxiety is like steps in old woodden stairs

We hear the noise but no one is coming

Sometimes it is a bliss and we take notice of happy events

But generally there remains an uncommon sense of steps that bring disconfort

Fear and ferment of a huge dark mass of pain

Anxiety sometimes remains, even if nothing bad happens, it still stays

Poetry is the inner movements that come and go, that rhyme, or no, dissonant or so

Poetry is not anxiety in itself, but words may be, rude, though, tigthen like a knot