The poet inside, under a tree

My aunt, a freelance artist in L.A., recently started a weekly e-poetry club, where people are free to submit mostly extemporaneous works. For example-

Oooh, ooh here is my submission! I call it "My Grammar Poem"

I do stuff and

Stuff happens to me

So yesterday morning at work I decided to try and reinvigorate my once determined, and determinedly adolescent, poetic hand. There's a poet inside all of us right? Somewhere near the fat person I'd imagine, probably under a tree.

These Anxieties

I’ve got this anxiety in that within place I can never find.
At work it concerns itself with work, at home with home.
And when I go out, well then it’s way out.

But I’ve got this other anxiety in that same within place.
It’s never present at work, always off somewhere in the past or the future.
When I’m at home it likes to go out and see the world.
And when I go out it gets lazy and dreams about sitting at home.

I’ve got these two anxieties like they should cancel each other out.
Like they should like, just really get over themselves already.
Agree to disagree or something, too much weight on my shoulders.

These anxieties.
Without them work, home, out, the past, the future, now just wouldn’t be the same.
So hard to keep imagining all these things, all these fucking scenarios.

It’s really hard to imagine. All the time.
It’s really hard to imagine where I’d be without these anxieties.