If I grant anxiety a color, it won’t be blue—
My leaden unease mingles
with the smirks of unsure gods
laced in the thread of milk clouds at night,
Grey. Half-moon fingernails can
carve out my nerves, but can’t unsee what I’ve seen
blister apart in my sleep. &My dreaming teeth grind pagan scenes
on the inside of my cheek—veins traveling blue
listless circles, nervous drunks can’t
swallow the twitch that mingles
with itching skin. Sober nights
breeding a fiending god.
Anxiety is nothing but a gaud,
trinket of disquiet—pallid scene
aching over nights
horizontal pacing twisted sheets, the cornflower blue
of my blood shot eyes—motes mingle
with the crust of feigned sleep. &I sleep when I can
but I rarely can
as my ribs roped and bloated by a mocking god
strain to mingle
in between hand-me-down sheets laced with the scene
of secret nicotine, the stench of Camel Blue.
I’ve tried to end this wrenching night
by burying a grave of down feathers—suffocate the night
not drown me in the ink of sleep, my nerves aren’t blue
but instead that dead cloud pavement, made of asphalt god
a serenade of my ache my adult angst my scene
of fractured ease. This ticking of my blood mingles
city streets &choking alleys, a coarse coursing of dreams mingle
between my window screen and paned glass. Tonight
I breathe in that seam, swallow the shards from a can
of cheap beer and whisper my elegy to an unworried god
plastered from lead crystal decanters filled with something blue.
My weeping anxious wounds aren’t blue, their fever mingles
with restless gods that make a mockery of nights
&they can’t sleep either after threading these scenes out of needled nerves.
My first attempt at a sestina. That’s some difficult shit right there. &This is my fifth poem at anxiety this semester… woops.