Art of Doing Nothing

Poem about anxiety with a plain picture of a blank sheet

The week is spent in tireless work
Mounted piles of projects
Stare me in the eye
But, nothing scares me more than
When, the week ends
And, I’m stripped off work, deprived.

I sit still in an empty room
Filled with noise of TV
And children squealing in the street
While, I sit still on a chair
Restlessly biting my nails
Nervously tapping my feet.

Brain, like a toddler
Fiddles with every passing thought
And moulds them into unwanted stories
I listen to it and shut it down
Once, twice, thrice…a thousand times
And all its rotten, plaguing theories.

Sweat rolls down my forehead
Heart pounds too loudly
It echoes in the room
And I sit still through the day
Till the sky loses all color
Till Monday fills this vacuum.

What do you think?

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