Anxiety's Canvas

I stand in the studio of my mind, brush in hand.

An artist poised to paint

A creator's stance.

The walls of my mind are an empty canvas,

Vast and white, full of possibilities.

My hand, steady before, is now a shaking leaf.

The palette trembles in my hand, a birthplace of memories,

Some lost, some forever imprinted.

Doubt seeps in like water, diluting confidence with every breath.

On the canvas, tentative lines materialize,

Faint and unsure, a rough outline of what could be.

But shadows take shape with every stroke,

Erasing progress faster than it can be made.

Anxiety, my unwanted muse,

He whispers searing critiques in manic tones.

Each brushstroke reminds me of things I cannot change.

One after the other a monumental task,

As if I paint with rocks rather than brushes.

The gravity of expectation weighing down my arms,

Perverting every shape my hand attempts.

I mix my paint with sweat and trembling fears.

Anxiety seeps into every hue,

Poisoning vibrant reds with sickly green,

And pacifying sunny yellows into somber blues.

The canvas drinks my doubts like a thirsty sponge,

Absorbing all the "what-ifs" and "not good enough,"

Until the image suffocates in murky undertones,

Of self-defeat and crippling second guesses.

My brushstrokes were once fastidious, now unsure.

Each movement is overthought; each choice is undone.

Anxiety conducts my quivering hand,

As if the canvas fights against my very will,

In jerky rhythms, constricted and tense,

No longer flowing with creativity.

What am I painting? I find myself unsure now.

Morphing with each uneasy thought, the image dances,

Now abstract,

Now realism,

Now surreal.

My unquiet mind becomes a Rorschach blot.

Perhaps I am painting myself, distorted and unsure,

Or maybe it's the world as seen through the lens of fear.

A landscape viewed through cracked lenses with frantic eyes,

Where in each shadow dwells a hidden dread.