Anxiety

The me is anxious
It is going to die
None of what it writes, thinks, or does —
None of its gains and losses —
Are going to mean a thing

The me is anxious
It is living —
And none of its worries
Its gains, losses, pleasures, or pains
Mean a thing
To anyone

The me is anxious
It can’t find itself

It does not know what to do
Where to turn
Who to ask
What to cling on to
Who to become —
So that it can be sure
That it exists
That it is real