Whispers of the Soul

OCD

Counting to Calm

In the stillness, I begin to count,
A whispered mantra, a secret mount.
One, two, three, the numbers align,
Each digit a step on a delicate line.

Fingers tap lightly, a rhythmic refrain,
A dance with the chaos, a flirt with the pain.
Four, five, six, a pattern takes shape,
A fragile cocoon, a self-spun escape.

With each number spoken, I seek to regain
The fleeting control in a world filled with strain.
Seven, eight, nine, the world blurs around,
As I search for solace, a calm to be found.

Yet in this pursuit, a paradox grows,
The counting, a tether, but the tension still flows.
Ten, eleven, twelve, the cycle spins tight,
What starts as a balm becomes fuel for the fright.

I grasp at the rhythm, the cadence, the beat,
But the loop that I weave feels like chains at my feet.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, I try to escape,
Yet the act of counting becomes my own tape.

Each number a barrier, each breath a constraint,
The ritual once soothing now whispers of faint.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, the anxious heart races,
The comfort I crave is lost in the spaces.

In this fragile dance, I'm both lost and found,
Each count a reminder of the chaos around.
Nineteen, twenty, and still I repeat,
A cycle of calm that feels bittersweet.

But in this obsession, a flicker of grace,
A lesson in patience, a step to embrace.
For counting is tethered to feelings so raw,
An attempt to find order in moments of awe.

So I'll breathe through the numbers, let them be a guide,
A bridge to the stillness where my fears can subside.
In counting to calm, I'm learning to see,
That sometimes the journey can set a heart free.

And if I stumble, if the rhythm falls through,
I'll count all the ways I'm still learning anew.
For in every repetition, there's strength to reclaim,
The dance of anxiety, a flicker of flame.