Anxiety and the Beginning

by Sam M. Phillips

I am on fire,

Cannot escape this prison of anxiety,

Look at me,

A screaming mess,

Is this the man I want to be?

Rise up and see God,

He is always with me.

There is meaning in this torture,

You are being asked

To rise to the challenge.

Channel your energy and dispel it,

You are capable,

Why can you not see your own quality,

Or have you reduced your own worth,

The glory and creation,

Down to a few temporary sense perceptions?

Many planets around many suns,

Many lives, lived and done,

An endless journey,

As far as time seas,

A roiling, twisting mass,

Balled up inside of me.

I wish I could sleep,

Or find peace,

But I am selfish,

And a user,

And there is nothing

For me but torment.

Look how productive you can be,

With little space,

With little time,

Think what you could do with eternity?

Not much left, use it wisely.

It is only through this process

That I remain sane,

Without it, I scream and fret,

And who needs that?

Is this meditation?

I watch the pen move,

The words form

And it takes my mind off my worries,

I just feel guilt and shame

That my insanity

Will paint you black and red, as well.

Coffee, decaf,

Who needs an increase in anxiety?

I have friends,

I am loved,

I am supported.

The spirits are with me,

They don’t want bad things for me,

If my relationship fails,

Then so be it,

I will not torture myself

Wondering what could

And could not be.

Coloured mat, yoga,

Something inside must be stretched out,

Rolled with a rolling pin.

You can dispel this feeling,

You are The One,

Made many,

Made one again.

I thought that there was no paper left,

Now, to find Two Whole Sheets,

Back and front,

White and clear,

Ready for me.

Yes, I have pain,

Pain I never knew,

But I am being asked to feel it clearly,

With great courage and commitment,

I go on,

I am a warrior,

So I fight,

Who do I fight?

My demons,

What are my demons?

My demons are my past, my future,

What is now?

Now is anxiety,

Why anxiety?

Because of the demons of my past and my future.

I must not give in,

I could write a whole book today,

I could write one today, and one tomorrow.

What is anxiety but bound up energy?

I am the spring, coiled tight,

Full of potential.

Is spirit trying to communicate with you?

I think it is,

Look at the images,

Inside and out,

And tell me it is not so.

Earth, tiger, spring,

Coil, unleash, repel,

Parasite.

I am proud of you,

You can make it,

You are a vibrant being,

An eternal soul,

Bound up in a body,

Bound up in so called problems,

If your toe hurt,

Would you be this grieved?

So dispel this pain,

A mere symptom of the body,

Dispel.

Pain and pleasure,

Two sides of the same coin,

I feel so much pain,

Yet I transform it to the pleasure of writing, of creation,

Will this free me?

Maybe not,

I’m just flipping a coin,

On which side will it land?

I don’t flip the coin,

I stand it on its edge and spin.

You are being challenged,

Who else could rise to this particular challenge?

Do you not see where you are being guided?

Not towards death, not towards oblivion,

But up, out and through,

You are being asked, challenged,

To live, totally and fully,

In complete realisation,

Of what is and what is not.

Your eyes are so beautiful,

But I worry,

They won’t look at me.

Ground, sky,

Wind, why?

No, die,

Live, cry.

There’s more to be had,

An eternal spring,

Think how proud you will be,

If you just stick with it.

How many?

Many.

How few?

Few.

Not much left,

But feeling blessed,

To have had the chance,

To have any,

Each moment,

Each inch of page and ink,

A blessing.

My ancestors are with me,

A lack of passion?

More like,

A lack of vision.

Seven, eleven,

You are my angel,

Do you know this?

I stand on the top of a cliff,

I prepare to jump,

All around me,

Beautiful forest, birds,

Many butterflies,

Many white butterflies.

Do not pause,

Do not pause for breath.

Let it out, let it all out,

Do not falter,

Do not falter for a second,

I am with you,

Always with you.

Is there nothing in you?

Would you prefer to have nothing?

Test, match,

Up, words.

A feather and a cup,

A lamp shade and a passing car.

Salt spilled on the table,

Sugar in the bowl,

A coaster and an empty bottle of beer,

A screaming plane,

Something is going over my head.

This is all quality,

And you know nothing else,

Others would die for this inspiration,

Well, maybe, they and I

Would wish to trade bodies,

I don’t think you could suffer the intensity.

What else is there for me,

But the words on this page,

To stop now would only invite insanity,

He is not welcome,

I would much rather create,

I am a creator, a creative,

He is a destroyer, destructive,

Yet, don’t these words come from Him?

Silver platter,

Silver screw,

Silver matter,

What are you?

If not for this pain,

This task could take eternity,

My soul may have eternity,

But I do not,

So I must write,

Here and now,

Why am I struck?

Do not squander paper,

Do not squander ink!

Do not squander pain,

And all that makes you think!

There is an order and a unity

To all of this,

Can you not take advice,

The good advice of a friend?

They are a messenger of God,

Will you not deliver

The gift you have been sent?

Stop, stop, no,

Do not take me away,

This is too much,

Yet not enough.

Sometimes, I wish I could travel through time,

And meet the many poets, many great minds,

That have touched me,

Luckily, I am here and now,

As are their words,

If you read this, long after I am dead,

Look closer, lean in,

And see me there, with you,

In these very words,

An echo call from the twenty first century,

Ancient times, for you,

The here and now, for me.

Do not let your words become large,

You have only so much space to write this tale.

There is rust in the steel tray,

The oxygen that makes me,

Makes it decay.

I am so glad,

That I didn’t run away,

I thought I had to,

When I could always stay.

Ten coils, ten smokes,

Ten poems, ten moats,

Yellow vase, small tree,

Big planet, big me.

Is this the worst,

Or best,

Day of my life?

If I cannot tell the difference,

Then I must be mad,

Or just human.

An age of anxiety and fear,

Placed here for my learning.

I truly believed, for just a moment,

That I was done, spent.

But a moment spent in my own thoughts,

And I am back,

Here they are,

Spent.

An album cover, hangs on the wall,

Lyrics of someone else’s pain.

Would you prefer to be boring?

I bore into my mind,

Not one would choose this, surely.

Razor sharp,

Ripping at the spirit,

Look at the cut,

Beautiful.

Do not waste this beautiful opportunity,

Look what can be made,

From all this seemingly senseless pain.

I open a window, and let you in,

I love you so much,

But really, I do this for me,

And that is Right

Rise and rise further,

A festival of the Sun,

Setting, a scene,

Done.

The music, the lifestyle, the fashion,

Are you so vain?

The art, the culture, the life,

Made of pain.

Walking through dreams to find substance,

Screaming through life,

Finding madness.

Fate, and a deadly cross,

A grave with no name,

A clock, and a singing voice,

Am I still alive?

Now that I have turned this sensation into words,

There is less need to feel it,

Now it is dispelled,

I wonder why I had to feel it in the first place.

Will I take a shower?

It seems a waste,

To wash away pain,

To wash away sensation,

Even if I hurt,

It is better to sit here

With my words,

My only real consolation the creation

That comes from this.

I stomp and shout,

Let it out,

Noise in the air,

Or noise in my head.

Hello pirate,

Round my neck,

On my desk,

Two animals living,

Two animals dead.

Coast and glide through life,

Free and easy,

With nothing to show for it,

Suffer and feel,

And see life transformed to art.

Any time you feel anxious or depressed,

Come visit me here,

And show me exactly how it feels,

Maybe there truly is some service to others,

In all this selfish pain.

Two pigeons, sitting on a fence,

One bobs its head into the hedge,

Eats the seeds,

The other bobs its head into the air,

For no seeds,

Same.

Beautiful dark hair,

Skulls on a shawl,

Ice eyes and pout mouth,

You drive me crazy.

I am only learning,

And growing all the time,

Why do I torture myself,

When I am only learning,

And growing all the time?

The plume of a peacock,

Spread out, radiant,

Attached, beautiful.

The single feather,

Plucked out, stomped into the ground,

Still beautiful.

Stranded, standing on crust of a beautiful planet,

Turned to hell by my own perspective,

Nothing else.

When you think there is nothing left,

Look around you,

And find inspiration in any little thing,

An angel, a spirit in disguise.

And so the two pure white sheets of paper

Are soiled and stained

With my thoughts

With my pains.

Coil around me,

Make me see

That I can be bigger than all of this,

Wrap me up,

And in doing so,

Give me a taste

Of what it is like

To truly be with you.

Stand on top of the world,

And look out on the great, long view,

In hope, rather than despair.

I will write anywhere, anytime,

I will grab any sheet of paper,

Tear at it, tear at my thoughts,

And make my pain sublime.

Truly, I thought I was done,

That I had nothing left,

But here it is,

A poem of nothing,

Made of nothing,

Flowing into nothing,

Now gone.

I am hungry,

I eat muesli,

I am in pain,

I write poetry.

Soggy, dead, cramped, lost,

Riled up, forged, made, tossed.

You used to think that poems were hard work,

But is it hard work for the tree to make its leaves,

Knowing that only then can it catch the life giving sunlight?

It just goes on and on,

Pouring out of me,

But is this surprising,

When your thoughts never cease,

Never give you a moments rest?

Surely, this is a sacrament.

There is no solution,

Only a changing of the guard,

A changing of the emotions,

Which do you feel right now,

The Sun’s rays

Or the bitter cold snowflakes?

It is only sense perception,

It is not you,

It is not forever,

It is only for right here and right now,

Later, something different,

Feel, and see correctly.

Is there nothing else to do,

No real world task?

Surely, the baker is more necessary,

The gardener, more necessary,

Are you just a worthless poet,

Selfishly in love and hate with yourself?

Or just focused in on the very stuff of your profession?

I have no desire to be a burden upon others,

Nor can I live in total isolation,

Am I a burden to all?

Or am I like everyone,

Hard for some, easy for others.

White and black,

Move against each other,

Pain and pleasure,

Move as one.