Back hunched, wooden desk imprinted with hours of work.
Time flies? More like treads through the tangled tendrils of tired thoughts.
As my mind winds ‘round and ‘round, it feels akin to a cirque.
Commissions assigned by my educators give my stomach coiled knots.

I could feel the symptoms licking at my heels,
Clawing through my system like a demon.
My body is the child, my mind is the balloon; or so it feels,
Floating above on a windy day without rhyme or reason,
Still attached by feeble string with scant power.
And so the battle begins; mind over matter.

The source of mental albatross, I scour,
I manage some deep breaths, drowning out the clatter.
Each breath brings my mind ease,
As if a window was wide on a spring eve.
Being back in the pilot’s seat brings my psyche immense peace,
But how long until my next attack will it be?
The mild-state of my consciousness is utterly unnerving;
The term of numbness seems endless.

Why doesn't anyone acknowledge my disease?
When will this suffering end?