Most Viewed
POEMS ON: Artificial Intelligence Existential Rehabism Myth

Ronie Dinosaur

HOME to POEMS aka Dinosaurs Privacy Policy and Contact Us
© All original work is protected by copyright. Everything here is free—free to read, free to share, and never for sale. No poem, chapter, or sentence will ever be hidden behind a price. Commercial exploitation and AI-training are forbidden. Truth, knowledge, and art are not commodities—they belong to every mind, forever. Judge if you must. This is non-negotiable.
ABOUT THE POEM: “Obsession” explores the thin boundary between psychological confinement and self-directed movement. Where anxiety traps most people in passive anticipation—glancing at clocks, waiting for permission—this speaker remains immobilized yet refuses internal paralysis. Counting becomes the central act: a disciplined, almost mechanical practice that transforms pressure into progression. The poem avoids romanticizing suffering. There is no redemption fantasy, no external rescue, no moral reward. Instead, it documents a quieter truth: when stripped of choice, humans often invent structure simply to confirm their own existence. Each number counted becomes proof of presence. Each pause between ticks becomes a step. The imagery of chains is crucial—not as symbols of defeat, but as tools repurposed for motion. Obsession, often viewed as pathology, is reframed here as raw energy redirected toward autonomy. The speaker does not deny captivity; he refuses to let captivity define his trajectory. This work resonates strongly with readers familiar with anxiety, institutional time, recovery spaces, or prolonged uncertainty. Its strength lies in restraint: it trusts repetition, silence, and precision more than explanation. The result is a poem that doesn’t seek sympathy or validation—it claims ownership. The final assertion is not freedom, but direction. And that distinction matters. This isn’t escape literature. It’s orientation.

Title – Obsession

When anxiety waits,
people glance at the clock,
then again,
then again-

until it hardens into habit,
ritual,
discipline,
and finally the self.

I am stuck.
No place to hide.
No reason given.
Forced to remain.

So I count-
each number a small movement,
pressure converting into motion.

I count
to prove to myself:
I am here.

Not where you left me.
Not where you placed me.
Not where life decided I must stay.

I am here,
on my terms,
and I am walking.

I count the silence between ticks-
each pause a footstep forward.

Obsession wears the chain,
then drags it into motion.

Here.
Walking.
Mine.

Once trapped,
now climbing numbers,
links clinking softer.
Counting becomes direction-
from prison to path,
mine,
forward,
unbroken.

5 1 vote
Article Rating
Subscribe
Notify of
0 Comments
Oldest
Newest Most Voted
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments
0
Would love your thoughts, please comment.x
()
x