Cogs whistling with friction and heat

Not enough oil to douse these inner defeats

It's like driving a car at top speed without any brakes

A devil-may-care stunt driver I nor anyone I know would claim me to be

I opt for the sands of a strech of Massachussets' beach

Imagining my legs on a bicycle or treading cold spring waters

Where salt and sand caress the skin

Rather than strip away your coat of paint

Where the water, no stranger to chaos, sedates under the shining sun

I profess no love for fear, yet my body makes it clear

That I am addicted to that rush--prepared to die at the slightest wrong touch

I lose the ability to see love in others. To think of myself rather than lovers

I crave normality like no others and have seen the bareboned beauty in us all

But in a race with myself, no brakes nor will to stop: everything becomes survival

Anxiety consumes me. Strangles me metaphorically and physically at my throat

Positive psychology is my philosophy, yet one I can only try to teach

But I practice so that I may know what confident words I can speak

To assuage another when they feel so week

And dissecting the mind into physical parts, though some would say is reductionist

Is my passion, my interest, my life, and my struggle. 

I know no better car to drive than my own despite its engine burning up under the strain

But in simple moments, I'd opt for my bicycle instead. Simpler, easier.

3 whirling gears rather than 300. . . My mind is not immune in those moments

But clarity is invoked as I steer into the skid.