This sucks, I hate it, and writer’s block is the worst.

anxiety is like demolition day

where I am both the unsuitable structure

and the incapable architect

watching the merciless wrecking ball

crush what once was home,

what once was warm.

Edit: Exchanged habitable for home. Agreed it doesn’t sound right. Thank you for all the kind comments. I didn’t think something erased, rewritten, erased again and rewritten in a fit of emotions would end up being one of the most appreciated poems I’ve posted here.

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