I Feel | poem

Slow,
Low,
Morose.
A rose will not keep me afloat. I’m drowning in the undertow.
A lotus will not save me from the depths of my own head. Anxiety is the anchor, dragging my aching heart lower and lower, until all I feel is somber.
Slow.
Below, these feelings are mysteries to me.
I can’t label them individually; they have become one, fastened by past visions.
Cramped, crushed, christened by ice, my body is oblivion.

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