Damn Chair

A chair a place of rest,
but to me torture.
It mocks my disquiet.

How do I remain still
when my insides
scream at me to move.

I have within me questions
that have no answers,
but I keep asking.

The rug under my feet
worn from my pacing,
useless, but I continue.

Where is peace?
I can not find it.
All I see is that damn chair.