Social anxiety is difficult to deal with. You find yourself unable to leave the house, not to mention engage in conversations. This is my poem about social anxiety.
The once cosy coffee house is now full of cold air and icy glances, I shudder, curled up in a sweat-stained shirt, no longer white. Time for a new top, don’t you think? they say.
I have verbal constipation, I wanted to shout but the condition doesn’t allow it. The white teethed-grins and belly-full laughs / I’m no longer part of / swamp me
everytime I visit the once cosy coffee house, now full of cold air and icy glances, the only heat’s in my armpits. I stink. Time for a shower, don’t you think? they think.
But the fixtures and fittings of the once cosy coffee house, now full of cold air and icy glances, have swallowed me up. Sweaty as I am, I’ve blended into
the cold and frosty background and ceased. She died of verbal constipation, they’ll say at my funeral service. Just couldn’t get herself out of it, they’ll whisper.
Dead, I am, relieved that dead / my sweaty armpits and I won’t be visiting the once cosy coffee house now full of cold air and icy glances no more.