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Atrium of Anxiety

Why Try?

By Taylor YoungPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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Conjure in this essence the prowess,

The capability that cannot reside in this body, this form.

Though not through ill attempt of resolve,

To find in this soul’s house cage, that capability.

Here, in this cage, but not a cage,

This anxiety filled atrium,

Filled with his invisible inked words,

Soaked onto nonexistent paper,

For eyes that shall never be enlightened,

Pacing till floors worn and shoes broken,

Searching for hopes of unhindered works.

One’s toil should be fuel for awareness,

Yet, ink and paper unaided does not sustain,

The idea grows stouter as the form diminishes,

Not much fear does it summon, that knowledge,

But to me this awareness arises no soothing effect.

I receive the bellowing calls of fate,

Demanding a damned, doleful destiny,

Away from this atrium of anxiety,

Answering pulls from my pacing path, partially,

My defiant soul willing to allow forms degradation,

Not so simply retreating from this passion.

If none are to see my words what shall I do?

These papers, these words my burden to carry,

Wanting, fearing eyes to judge their worth,

Though peace is found through the internal cadence,

Again the form dissipates while the soul feasts.

If I am to choose to stay I shall diminish to nothing?

Should I, if I choose, mislay that bond which holds me close?

Sob for form, life has much too desire,

Experience which would only fuel those unobservable words,

Form produces form, this feeds a soul for in form soul occurs,

Soul that hungers in which can be fed in this atrium,

Shown but not to reside here as form now must care for form,

So only to be a guest of the atrium but not the host.

Still not to acknowledge that such both can exist,

To reside and to be honored host to a new soul,

Is now more rare than that of slightly warmed meat.

There are also, things in which can be rammed away,

Disregard and disassemble all that which holds form dear,

That which promises not to abandon but nightmares still clutch.

The one thing both form and soul desire precious,

Held in arms and soothed in the atrium,

Forms apprehension is founded in her vigor,

Many of Soul’s unobservable words stirred by her,

Her promises build the will but weaken the heart,

Stay she says and scribble away it will one day arrive,

gives rise to courage and will to explore this place,

Also, though, the seeds of duty it plants,

The atrium is a dry place and cold.

Yet, it seems careless to permit this to ruin,

Knowing well, that here, this one can no longer stay,

Maybe if I had arrived many centuries ago,

When these presentations were acceptable for so much more,

Soul may dwell here and form exist fit and healthy,

Now, though, in this atrium, little can provide,

This place will soon be emptied of my life,

The words never to meet eyes,

Never to meet compassion,

Never to meet exquisiteness.

If this place I’m forced to abandoned,

Then shall it forever be marked for eyes,

Conducted in which it could never be disregarded,

Forever marked with these words,

However scarce shall meet with it,

Yet, undeniable those few who will see it,

The truth hidden within those constructs,

How can one not yearn for this achievement,

Though this I may not wholly attain,

Will in fact attempt at this great challenge.

With this minuscule period lingering,

Paper shall be inked, linked, and arranged about,

This place being so barren left no paper,

This place being so dry leaves no ink,

No way to achieve this desperate mission,

Fear not, for even if paper and ink would exist,

That the modesty of that medium embraces,

Would only reduce the audacity of these words,

Calming their aims to rubbish and dribble.

If paper will not do, I shall create parchment,

Tore from the form; desiccated, plucked, and stretched,

If ink shall not produce I will use the milk of form,

Pooled from the parchment and reclaimed as ink,

Once again conjoined but not in natural state.

Then, the fibers that are plucked to be twined,

Linked through the parchment as bindings.

If my endeavor should gain no appeal,

My writings to lose meaning in their acts,

Then haughty failure be unavoidable,

Then it be clear my essence to leave,

I shall leave my actions as it had been shown,

Accepting to discover my fate elsewhere,

Abandoning my words in the atrium of anxiety.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Taylor Young

Hi, I'm a young writer with a writhing hatred for this world but a love of words. Am I unique yet? In all honesty, I just hope someone enjoys what I write.

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