Poetry: Cold is the Tile

 Watching the clouds roll in my eyes,

The smell of Incoming trails on the wind,

As they fall, they drench me in a cool, cold sweat, 
My hands start to shake, and my vision goes blank, 

My head fills with doubt and every word ever used in vain, 
The curses, the yelling, the blame, 
On the outside, you see calm, but inside I'm reaching out for help,
You don't see it in humor and in my smile,
It lays wide open if you just ask,

But you don't,

So here I sit on cold tile, hand pressed to my heart,
Trying to stop the crying jag I'm in because anxiety has come back,
It never stays long; it comes quick and hard like an E5,
Leveling all progress in my path,

After the storm passed through, I was left panting,
I'm left cleaning up the mess I am,
Because you made me, 
I am left looking into my own, red-rimmed eyes,
Wondering how I am still here,
At an address, I've always had, even though I had moved,