I set my expectations
from outside myself,
then assign them tiny voices
that keep speaking for my health.
They can produce a future
entirely in my head.
One that may not happen,
but its happening I will dread.
These voices of expectation
and the futures they prescribe,
are the brew of my anxiety
that I still choose to imbibe.
But a soothing cup of silence,
a deep breath of here and now,
can quiet expectations
and smooth my wrinkled brow.
This poem was posted for the previous week’s poetry prompt, Anxiety
