A poem about stress

A 21st century word

was just a syllable single

until I felt its surge,

setting my nerves a-jingle.

Then it wreaked its singular havoc

through my jittery, jellied knees.

My adrenaline ran wild, amok,

my sanity begged a muffled ‘please’.

No more will I see stress

as an excuse that’s ever so lame,

that steals away its guests;

that’s lazy in all but name.

It contorts and claims its vulnerable scalps.

Oh, stress has a will of its own.

But face-to-face I’ll expose its cruel traps.

Only with calm will I mute that old crone.

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