Poetry

I lay in my bed again that night.
A series of questions hitting me hard, all at once.

O here's to my wounded nights, my brain firing questions on past & present declines.
Fears. In and out, a list of fears to meet.
It's been a week, 3 hours of sleep.
Insonmia will be too less to describe.
I am suffering from my own criticism crisis and hidden anxiety. 

Still I'd say everything allright.
One day when I had it all. 

I took up the task of writing everything down.
That's when it changed. A shift. A revelation was revealed.
Those haunting questions at night were converted into poetry.
Some say they relate some say I write fiercely.
But my poems are nothing more than what I feel deeply.
Cause I know now it was my fears that needed to be conquered in those nights, fearlessly.
So I do it every now and then.
Meeting fears/Answering questions/ Killing my anxiety/Poetry.
You name it.