Wild Anxiety

There is nothing that will fulfil me here.
I am encircled by my possessions
yet I resort to young brandy and beer.
Light sleep's respite is now my obsession.


I long for something with coursing bright blood.
Some close soothing warmth I mutely desire.
But when fearfully near I close my hood,
later, in hindsight, my moral is dire.


I have no glaring faults, I have been told,
with life, I hold no resentful ill will.
Truly I should, have faith, perk up, be bold,
so why leave such a tender hole to fill?


I have only myself to share my blame
until my wild anxiety is tame.