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My fear is not a man, he’s
not an animal, it’s
not a wicked witch, she’s
not alien robots on fourteen appendages, they’re
not a chemical attack;
fear is a feeling,
fear is a thing.
When the thing that is Fear comes
skulking to the door, when
I don’t recognize the character,
can’t place the gloom of the space,
can’t remember what the thing that
fear does does.
Does he burn,
does it bite,
does she hex,
do they fight,
am I oozed down screaming
in the acid?
What do I do?
There are two things to fear,
the fear and the Thing.
There are lobes and glands and skin and anatomy parts
squeamish to burn, be bitten, be cursed and beaten,
a repealing off these pink lips in the blackening.
I can handle the fear
every day; I just haven’t the feeling
what to do with
Thanks to Jane for this poem relating to anxiety disorder!