I set myself to high standards and have a lot going on in my life. Most people, not even my parents know that I have anxiety (I know, should work on that). Since I can’t talk to anyone, poetry about my feelings is my release. I’d love it if you’d take a read: 

The warm salty drops that run like the rain. 
Although a release, don’t save me from pain. 
Minutes, hours, stretch to months and years. 
The only consistency I have is the tears. 

All is fair in theory but not in practice. 
Rules, regulations- control distracts us. 
You don’t want to be the best you want to be noticed. 
Be praised and cheered, have a reason to live. 
It doesn’t matter, I never did. 

It’s all too familiar, only ever second best. 
Not even second, not even close to the rest. 
I was stressed, pressed, a sinking in the chest. 
Obsessed, a mess, at constant unrest. 
It was all for nothing, don’t be impressed. 

Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter. 
Don’t tell me I did well. 
I didn’t. I didn’t. Not in my own eyes. 
My own eyes where tears are cried. 

For a moment I thought I was there. 
I thought I’d done it. 
But in the end hope is unfair. 
I don’t want to care.