Posted by Helena Smole in Schizoaffective disorder
on Aug 10th, 2020
Anxiety is like sitting in a rose bush.
I find a thorn in me and away I push.
Trying to be free, even reborn.
But all I get is another fear – another thorn.
With the new virus the bush got wider.
I ask myself, why do I even bother?
The virus killed the writer in me?
How do I get words through to thee?
Please don’t forget my humble writing,
All I can say I’ll keep on fighting.
Fighting for afternoons without fear,
If not entirely – sometimes I come near.
I promise I’ll try to keep you posted in my posts,
Even if every morning I wake up afraid of my own thoughts.
Take...