anxiety

📝 The Echo in the Well

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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📝 The Echo in the Well

We walked the same path, pen in hand,
Mind alight, a shared commitment’s sign.
Pilgrims in a lonely, distant land,
Chasing the same bright star, divine.
Our bond, once firm, was forged by toil,
Ink-smudged paper, the screen’s harsh glow,
A hopeful process on a hungry soil,
A private weight the outside doesn’t know.

But when the harvest comes, a sudden wrench,
The seed you sow brings fruit upon my ground.
The garden blooms, across a mutual bench,
But only your name is on the flowers found.
My careful work, the agonizing hours,
My every effort, tragically the same,
Is rendered Invisible, stripped of all its powers,
Swallowed whole by an eclipsing fame.

They gather ’round your posts, a swelling tide,
A deluge of bright approvals, warm and fast.
Endorsements flow, they cannot seem to hide
The joy they feel that you have made it last.
I am a shadow in this scene so bright,
An old contact they vaguely knew, unheard.
They click the heart, basking in your light,
But never glance upon my waiting, silent word.

Our dear ‘mutuals,’ who claimed a deep-felt tie,
Are quick to share your links, to elevate.
They laud your verse beneath the public sky,
While my own craft lies in a silent state.
So forms the question in my empty chest:
Is it the work, the art’s intrinsic worth,
Or merely the loud acclaim they love the best?
The rising star, or the quiet flame of birth?

If friendship is a mirror, clean and true,
Reflecting back the efforts we impart,
What does their universal silence do
To my ignored, distant, lonely star?
If you are seen, and I am a pale ghost,
Haunting the edge of your success and grace,
Who is the friend, and who is merely the host,
Ignoring the guest who waits within the space?|

The heart grows bitter, chilling doubt takes root.
They loved the writer, the idea of the name,
And not the soul, the person who bore the fruit,
In the quiet, solitary, unlit flame.
The bonds we trusted, once so strong and high,
Were not of iron, nor loyalty’s hard line,
But paper, flimsy, easy to pass by,
Disposable in the blinding fire of your shine.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Shattered Image

/ Nancy Ann Creed / 2 Comments
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The Shattered Image

The depth of my disappointment is immense,
I truly thought you were a person of integrity,
Whose every action would align, with no pretense,
With the strong character you seemed to be.
“I thought you were better” is too mild to say;
I saw in you a loyalty I sought to find,
A moral standard now just dust and clay,
A shattered image of a perfect mind.

The thing you did, or failed to do, you see,
Was not a simple letdown; “it crushed me” whole.
It was a devastating blow to my reality,
A chasm swallowing my trusting soul.
I had invested trust and boundless hope,
An extraordinary quantity of “faith in you,”
To find it misplaced, I now must grope,
A personal failure, though the fault is true.

Our bond, which I so dearly held and prized,
Was based on a belief in shared pure light.
“I thought we were actually friends,” I realized,
Now every memory feels contaminated, blight.
Each moment shared, each secret I confessed,
Feels poisoned by the knowledge I now hold,
That “that’s a lie, and it’s always been a lie,” unblessed.
A friendship’s illusion, turning cold.

My estimation of you reached the stars,
“Maybe I thought more highly of you than you think of yourself.”
I held you past your self-imposed high bars,
More than you were capable of from your shelf.
I believed you held a goodness and a strength,
A beautiful essence that does not exist.
“Maybe I thought more of you than you truly are,” at length,
The gap between the ideal and the actual persists.

My admiration wasn’t born from my own plight,
For I appreciated what I thought you were.
I never claimed perfection, or to be the light:
“I don’t think I am special; I thought you were.”
I know my faults; I am not so grand:
“I don’t think I am great; I thought you were.”
My self-regard is low, I understand:
“I don’t think highly of myself, but I thought highly of you.”

The burden of this pain, in a dark way,
Rests on my shoulders for this foolish crime.
“I guess I was wrong to put that much faith in you,” I say.
The name of “friend” was sacred, but I wasted time:
“I guess I was wrong to call you a friend.”
My error was this desperate, naive dream,
That you would prove me right until the end:
“I guess I was wrong; I wanted you to be better.”

And so I cycle through this self-inflicted doubt,
Were my expectations too far out of reach?
“I guess I was wrong, maybe it’s just me,” I shout.
But the ultimate truth that the facts now preach:
“I guess I was wrong; I put too much faith in you.”
I took your potential for your very core:
“I guess I was wrong, believing in you,” it’s true.
I can’t believe in you anymore.

The desolate conclusion is the clear refrain:
“I guess I was wrong.” A simple, crushing sound.
For in your actions, truth gives way to pain:
“I guess I meant nothing to you” that I have found.
The end of my faith is the end of what we were.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

A Silent Farewell

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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A Silent Farewell

I hide myself away, retreating from the world’s harsh light,
To hide from those I fear, the shadows that invade the night.
The whispers and the judging eyes, they pierce me to the core,
So I draw the curtains closed, and lock the heavy door.
I hide myself away, within this solitary keep,
A silent farewell for now, while deeper secrets sleep.

The silence of this self-made cell becomes a heavy shroud,
I cried myself to sleep, a soundless weeping in the crowd.
To hide and weep, my body shaking with the strain,
To hide and weep, to wash away the bitter, throbbing pain.
Each tear a wasted moment, falling in the deep,
As promises I couldn’t keep haunt me while I sleep.

A sharp regret now cuts the air: Why did I waste so much time?
Consumed by baseless fear, an unforgivable, self-made crime.
To fear what they say, the empty words that hold no weight,
To let their careless judgments seal my solitary fate.
I should have stood defiant, met their gaze with fiery pride,
But cowardice took hold, and left me here to hide.

Again, the darkness calls me down, the cycle starts anew,
I cried myself to sleep, until the morning filtered through.
To hide and weep, a ritual of sorrow and despair,
To hide and weep, a burden that my heart can barely bear.
This isolation is a monster, feeding on my will,
A self-imposed exile upon this lonely, silent hill.

But then a whisper rises, fragile yet defined,
A voice that speaks of freedom, leaving fear behind.
Open the doors, let sunlight flood the dust and gloom,
And hide no more, escape this cold and empty room.
Open the doors, the hinges squeak with long disuse,
And hide no more, relinquish every weak excuse.
The world awaits beyond the latch, vibrant and so vast,
A future built on courage, leaving shadows in the past.

I cried myself to sleep, a memory that starts to fade,
Wasting so much time, upon a path too long delayed.
Wasting so much time, a treasure carelessly set free,
But now the lock is broken, and the key belongs to me.
The sun on my face is a promise, clear and bold,
A new story beginning, waiting to unfold.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Acceptance is the Key

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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The weight of a thousand eyes presses down,
A silent, ceaseless judgment that I drown
Within. I worry too much, an endless loop
Of anxious thoughts, a psychological stoop

About how others see me—the fleeting glance,
The subtle shift, the judgment they advance.
Each interaction is a stage, a test,
Where my own self-worth is put to the best
Or worst assessment by an external gauge.
I turn each minor slip into a mental cage.

I worry too much, an unrelenting fear,
About whether they like me, holding me dear,
Or casting me aside with cold indifference.
The need for approval is a fierce presence,
A hunger I can never seem to appease,
Searching for acceptance on every breeze.

I worry too much, the constant, weary drain,
About what others think, the imagined stain
They see upon my character or my name.
This scrutiny I project is a cruel game,
Where I am both the player and the prize,
Obsessed with the mirrors in other people’s eyes.

Why does it matter so much to me, this need
To fit the mold, to plant the perfect seed
Of a flawless persona in their minds?
Why do I seek the validation that binds
Me to their opinion, tethering my peace
To whether or not their judgments cease?

The mask I wear is finely wrought and bright.
I say, with forced conviction and feigned might,
It doesn’t bother me. My voice is steady, low.
I put, with practiced ease, a flawless show,
On a brave face, a fortress built of stone,
Pretending I stand confidently alone.

But the truth is, the internal tremor starts,
It does bother me, deep within the hidden parts.
The words I speak are often just a lie,
A desperate attempt to watch the worry die.
The fear of rejection is a constant, nagging ache,
A vulnerability I cannot fully forsake.

I want to move on from these consuming thoughts,
To sever the chains of ‘what-if’ and ‘what-nots’.
I want to rid myself of the debilitating idea,
That everyone has to like me, crystal clear,
A fantasy that keeps me small and tight.
I long to stand securely in my own light.

No matter what I say or do, the true release
Lies not in their affection, but in my own peace.
Acceptance is the key, the final, crucial stand.
Acceptance of who I am, etched by my own hand,
And the profound, unshakable belief that I am worthy,
Not because they say it, but because I know the worth of me.
I will claim my own value and finally be free.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Unspoken Question of Worth

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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The Unspoken Question of Worth

Am I a difficult person to be friends with?
The question echoes in the lonely silence,
A heavy query, weighted by repeated pain.
I dissect each word, each passing glance,
Seeking the flaw so visible to others’ eyes,
Yet stubbornly opaque, a shadow on my own stain.

Am I too awkward, my presence a strain?
Does nervousness stilt the practiced conversation?
I rehearse the words, the balance I must find,
To hold the moment, a calculated equation.
But the words tumble out, a chaotic, hurried rush,
Leaving the perfect moment behind.

Am I too anxious, a constant, worrying hum?
A fear of saying too much, of taking up space,
Of simply being a burden, too large, too loud.
This anxiety, palpable, a barrier I can’t erase,
A repellent field that pushes people away,
Before a true connection is allowed.

Do I forget to hold my tongue’s sharp edge?
I value honesty, perhaps too stark and free.
I speak without the varnish of social grace,
And the truth, though gently offered, can still be
Mistaken for bluntness, a candor that drives them out.
What is it? A flaw I cannot place.

I don’t have many friends; the truth is stark.
My circle’s small, fragile, and often transient.
I don’t know what’s wrong, the fundamental divide.
While others form bonds, lasting and resilient,
Mine disintegrate like paper submerged in water,
With nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide.

I am a friend until a better one appears.
I serve a purpose, a stand-in for the interim,
A convenient stop until a brighter option’s found.
I am never good enough, always on the rim;
The comparison is the moment of my replacement.
I am the waiting room, not the desired ground.

I hold on too long, clinging to the frayed thread,
Stretching the inevitable goodbye, a profound fear.
My loyalty, my constancy, becomes a weight,
A burden they let go, holding nothing dear.
Sometimes I must be the one to let go first,
A painful, self-preserving, final tear.

It is lonely at times, profoundly I miss
The shared laughter, the feeling of belonging, deep inside.
But is it real, or the memory idealized?
A performance they gave, while they stood by my side,
Waiting for the true cast, the better friends to arrive.
In the lie of the past, there’s no place left to confide.

I will be there for those who need me to be.
My nature unchanged, I offer care freely,
A reliable constant, though never the primary light.
If you want me to go, tell me honestly.
Spare me the slow fade, the ghosting, the agonizing fight.
But if you call again, I’ll return without demanding right.

Cherish the friends who remain by your side.
Focus on the true constants, the precious, small few.
If some want to leave, let them walk away;
Their departure speaks of their needs, not a judgment on you.
Accept the impermanence, hold the good memories fast,
And keep the door open for the few who are true.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Tie Is Severed

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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The Tie Is Severed

I lost a friend today,
A simple, heavy line
That should descend like sorrow’s shroud,
A grief for what was mine.
I waited for the cutting edge,
The sting of sudden pain,
But found instead a strange relief,
No shadow of a chain.

I should be sad, should mourn the end,
The history we knew,
Yet in my chest a lightness wakes,
Defiant, strong, and new.
The truth is stark, the choice is clear,
I look upon the past:
I am not sorry that it broke,
I am simply glad at last.

The severing was not a hush,
But clash of will and word,
A necessary, cleansing fire
Where my own truth was heard.
I stood firm in the tempest’s heart,
Refused to be denied,
And drew a boundary, sharp and deep,
With nothing left to hide.

The lesson’s hard, but vital known:
Respect must be the core.
A friend should cheer the victory,
And lift you from the floor.
Your champions, they must remain,
To hold your spirit high,
But when support becomes resentment,
The basic contract dies.

When ally turns to critic’s shade,
A drain upon your soul,
They’ve breached the terms of fundamental trust,
And lost their rightful role.
The choice is not of cruelty,
But self-preserving might,
To cast the anchor from the boat,
And step back toward the light.

Assess the ones within your ship,
As you begin to rise;
Not all are rowing for your cause,
Some paddle with disguise.
Your soaring ambition reveals their truth,
Their loyalty gives way,
As jealousy’s shadow clips your wings,
And clouds your brighter day.

So now I mourn the anchor lost,
The friend who pulled me down.
The feeling is no sad despair,
But freedom’s joyful crown.
A paradoxical, weary joy,
A wish that bonds would hold,
Yet still the weight is wholly gone,
A future to unfold.

The boat is lighter now it sails,
The struggle set aside.
I’m rowing, finally, alone,
With nothing left to hide.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Wait Your Turn

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Wait Your Turn
They bid us work, and strive, and strain,
They preach the gospel of grit and pain.
The virtue of patience, a long-held breath,
Wait your turn, they assure, until death.
With diligent toil within the system’s fold,
Good things will come, a story often told.

They hail the high road of academic might,
Perfect grades, degrees, and the burning night
Of all-nighters, leading to institutions grand,
The path to success paved by a diploma in hand.
The central command, the mantra they impart:
Work hard, and success will fill your heart.

But the hollow sound their pronouncements make,
From a sheltered world, for goodnes’s sake.
A place sustained not by relentless effort’s cost,
But by the legacy that was never lost,
By exclusive gates and a lineage long,
A privilege entrenched, where they belong.

They fail to grasp the truth that grinds us down,
The doubled effort just to keep the crown
From slipping, just to stay where we began,
Disconnected from the struggle’s rigid plan,
That harsh existence which our lives define,
While they stand above, on heights divine.

What they possess, we desperately lack:
The insulating cushion on wealth’s track,
Money that shields them from survival’s fear.
They wield the power that holds the system dear,
Shaping the rules, not merely influence slight,
And connections unseen, a web of pure light.

A network of favors, a whispered invitation,
Opportunities passed through each generation,
A resource worth more than all the sweat we’ve spent,
Yet they command us to be more intent.
They stand on their platforms, elevated and cold,
“Work harder,” they shout, a story getting old.

This directive is a self-serving slight,
A useful tool for a blinding light,
To justify their perch, so high and so neat,
To placate the masses, a narrative complete.
Keep us focused on the effort of one,
Ignoring the structures, the battle unwon.

But now we pierce the veil, we understand,
Too long we’ve labored at their harsh command.
Our youth and our fire poured into the drain,
For a system of diminishing, aching pain.
We know by the certitude of what we live,
That harder work will not be enough to give.

It cannot breach the walls that they have raised,
It cannot lift the life we’ve always praised,
Nor close the chasm wide that separates
Their world of ease from the heavy fates.
The meritocracy’s promise, their comforting theme,
Is a fiction, a sermon, a vanishing dream.

It is a sham, a lie both vast and bold,
A hollow pretense, a story bought and sold.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Unanswered Call

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment

The Unanswered Call

The silence stretches, wide and deep, a space
Where my small ‘hello’ falls without a trace.
I check my phone, a habit worn and true,
A faint, false hope that maybe it’s from you.

The thread of connection, I’m the one who weaves,
The constant opener, the one who believes
That if I pause, if I just let it be,
The silence would grow to infinity.

I map the distance, gauge the growing gap,
And I’m the one who always has to ta
Upon the glass, the careful, gentle nudge,
To prove our bond isn’t built on a grudge.

I know your news, the triumphs and the strife,
Because I ask about your life.
I hold the mirror, catching all the light,
And listen late into the lonely night.

But oh, dear friend, a quiet, simple plea
Sometimes I wonder, do you think of me?
When the dark shadows start to close me in,
And my own battle is where I begin…

I wish just once, without a prompting word,
The unexpected check-in would be heard.
To see a message, a small, unsolicited sign,
“Are you okay? How are things on your line?”

To feel the warmth of being sought and seen,
And know I’m valued, not just a machine
For comfort given, always on the call.
I long to know I matter after all.

More Work by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

I See the Phone

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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The black phone rests, a silence made of glass,
A direct line across the choking air.
My fingers yearn to seize its cool, smooth mass,
To dial the number etched beyond compare.
A fleeting urge to break the constant drone,
To trade my heart’s loud drumming for a voice unknown.

Or I could message, try to weave a careful plea,
A sequence of small signs, an emoji’s face.
To message more, to bridge the digital sea,
But leaden weight holds me within this space.
I am a prisoner in my own inertia’s thrall,
Unable to bridge the gap from thought to call.

My restless hands climb to my weary head,
To twirl a strand of blonde around a finger’s tip.
A pull, a slow release, a mark of tender red,
Until the coil is tight upon my lip.
A meaningless ritual, a physical display,
Of all the mental turmoil that will not fade away

Inside, the engine roars, though I appear so still,
My heart a frantic drummer beating out alarm.
The air is thin, a breath against my panicked will,
A visceral, exhausting, full-body harm.
Yet, still life carries on, the sun’s indifferent track,

Oblivious to the silent crisis holding back.
And so, I do not call. The paralysis has won,
Against the simple, human wish to just connect.
I hate the phone for what it has become,
A terrifying chance of being now rejected

The pressure of potential, the awkwardness that lies,
Reflected in the fear within my anxious eyes.
I lift my hand again, to message in the night,
But corrosive thoughts poison the touch before it lands:
I am a bother, a shadow, an intrusive blight,
A need that only inconveniences hands.

A self-imposed boundary, a powerful, deep chill,
That freezes my desire and holds my actions still.
This cease-less fight, the heart that pounds and strains,
The hand that freezes on the tool for grace—
The manufactured boundary of “being a pain”—
This is the cage, the isolating space.

Anxiety’s invisible lock, a final, cruel decree,
To watch the phone lie unused, and never to be free.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

What Depression Feels Like

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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What Depression Feels Like

The liquid velvet, soft and deep,
A wonderfully warm tide to keep
The soul at rest, the skin in grace,
A gentle, all-encompassing embrace.
It holds the sun’s forgotten art,
A yielding balm that mends the heart,
Sinking deep into the bone,
Where every coil of tension is overthrown.

A quiet joy within the chest,
A feeling wholly warm and blessed.
Not just physical, but a love untold,
A deep, inexplicable warmth to hold.
In peaceful suspension, time is still,
The outside world obeys the will
Of this sweet bliss, where nothing is near
But the gentle lapping of the heat held dear.

Then, a subtle shift begins to creep,
Disturbing the water from its sleep.
A whisper of coolness, a current’s sigh,
A quiet, inevitable tide draws nigh.
Down and down, the sanctuary falls,
The warmth’s core pulled through unseen walls,
A slow descent, the magic gone astray,
As the perfect feeling flows away.

Swiftly now the change is known,
A shocking cold, where heat was sown.
It hits the body, a sharp intrusion,
A sudden, stark, and cold confusion.
Creeping up the limbs, the awakening stark,
Leaving a chill, a profound, cold mark.
A sudden loss, a trailing dread,
As comforting heat has truly fled.

The final warmth is now withdrawn,
I lie in wait for the bleak, cold dawn.
The porcelain icy, the air is chill,
The once-magical pool is now still.
A container cold, and left alone,
A bleak and empty vessel of stone.
I shiver slightly, the memory’s grace
Of that perfect heat still haunts this place,
Wondering why such a feeling could flee,
And depart so completely from me.

A good friend once told me that this is how depression feels. I do not have depression. I have anxiety. But I thought it was an interesting metaphor for depression. I wanted to write it down to give some awareness. He said once the cold hits you, you feel like the warmth will never come back.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd