Dreaming With Anxiety

With who I am
I dream of soldiers
begging to go home,
and only allowed to leave
once they’ve swallowed
pounds
of old iron nails.

They’d die
at the feet
of their children,
in a pool of blood
and iron
sick.

With who I am
I dream of loved ones
with their organs
seram wrapped outside
their body,
and connected back
by the dried remains
of their vessels.

They won’t listen
when I say
something is awfully,
terribly
wrong.

With who I am
I dream wrong.
Sometimes.

Others I’m flying,
finally free,
into the glorious
moutain setted sunshine,
and the air is crystaline,
and grandma’s house below.

Or I’m powerful, mighty,
watching fantasy spout
like magic
from my fingers.

Others I’m in heaven
learning how to sing
as the angels do.

But
for today,

I’m hiding
from who I am.

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