The moment
The problem
The worry
Arise
In the back of your mind
The black poison assures itself
That it will engulf the remainder
Of your worried,
Damaged head

You attempt to dilute it
You succeed
But -
Only for thirty one minutes
And sixteen seconds
Failure seeps its way in
Puzzlement places itself
Again

The anxiety proves to be a distortion
Of reality
You feel ‘nothing’
Yet, you ‘feel’ broken
You second guess
Your quick and tempting decisions

Your senses are now watered down
Your mind becomes worry itself
The cellular structure degrades
And drifts off in spores
Throughout the dank air
You can’t breathe, now

You dilute the blackness that is confusion
Again
Again
Again
Until the poison develops
Immunity
You fail
Again
The game is now over
You have lost

- Justin Bellefontaine