Social Anxiety.

If I had a dollar for every time there was something I wanted to say,
and didn't say it,
a dollar for every time my brain hushed the hope in my heart for communication,
I'd hire a psychiatrist to give me drugs
so I could actually talk to the therapist I'd hire to talk to about my problems.

My voice-box is a broken stereo,
It never makes much noise,
and when it does it's a broken record.
It ski-ski-ski-ski-stutters over words like speed bumps in the road,
warning me to calm down.

I know I don't seem like much,
it doesn't seem like my wheels turn quite like they should.
I know I don't speak up as much as I should,
but my frontal lobe is a beautiful red Mustang,
it runs with the power of about 600 horses.
The thing about going fast is you never slow down to enjoy the details,
you miss things.
And my frontal lobe goes so fast when its expected to come up with responses to simple statements.
It floods itself with the adrenaline it pumps into my bloodstream.
I don't miss things quite as much as people miss me,
when they ask me how I've been and I freeze.