Qualm Poem by noel maddock

Confessions of a qualm play:
I’m bothered by notions
Of what to, not to say.
It seems to worsen with age.
A cliff losing face to the waves.

This isn’t a game.
I’m concerned to stay more or less sane.
It feels like the cutting of wires,
Snipping whatever is weakened and frayed.
Sabotage. A fight that is fixed with decay.

Bothered by thinking on what is my place,
Everything centered on what is to me,
What must I do to ingratiate,
To feather the nest of my dream.

So what if the self is a mocker.
Who bothers for whom?
Why bother?
Can there really be such a state?
When the cliff falls what takes its place?