I breathe in the ocean waves
The rolling and tumbling of my feelings
Echo the flickering lights above me
Dim and dimmer
Sea breeze sings to me
As the moon cradles me in my
I am within sure embrace;
I am overtaken by the waters
Lights flicker till I can only
Feel dimmest in her moonlight
Do I dream or wake?
Where now has my spirit gone?
Somewhere, out there,
Dancing with the night sky,
Arm to eye, hand to cheek
I lay ever still
The ocean waves breathe me
This is not a pretty poem, because I am not a pretty girl;
you won’t bear witness to a gentle tale of ivory and pearl,
I’m afraid I’ll be too harsh and scare you away
but if you’re anything like me, or not at all like me, please stay.
I won’t keep you long, I just want to tell you a story,
a teenage angst almost-allegory,
of a version of me, when I was seventeen,
I was in college, and I didn’t get stressed in classes – I got stressed in the canteen.
Let me explain before you think that I’m strange,
it’s only a story of saltwater and pain,
the kind that you get when you drink a full cup to make yourself throw up,
only you don’t, and you can’t, and you just heave and believe
that one more minute in the bathroom will change everything you perceive.
I won’t bore you with the gore, but I didn’t throw up,
and I never did that again, because someone once said
that insanity was doing the same thing over and over until you’re dead.
So I couldn’t be sick, big deal, isn’t it?
It just meant that the only other method was to restrict and restrict,
only I couldn’t do that either, and here’s another story,
my willpower was my mental memento mori.
I don’t need a friend to tell me that this will only cause regrets,
I need someone to hit me; force-feed me diet coke and cigarettes,
I want to be so in love with hating myself that that I’m too tongue-tied to eat,
but what I use as my crutch is the thing that’s keeping me broken in defeat.
I want to be more comfortable staring down a camera lens than the barrel of a gun,
and if you’re still here – I promise I’m nearly done,
soon I’ll get out of your way, and let you forget,
of lonely old me and my little cigarette;
I know if I start again it won’t keep me alive,
but I’m strangely alright with that, not making it past twenty-five.
Woven into words of disillusion the prospect
of those that undo the considerations of my
breath. I want to silence every motion that
gives them substance to drag me to desolation.
In the reasoning of my continuation, I see it
as a stalemate of the affliction that is seeded
within me. But the pressures of reality are
dwindling to the choosing of words on paper.
I was pulled beneath the statements of others
wishes, but within my solitude a vocal theme
kept me above the surge of nothingness. Indebted
to that one voice that said "I'm always here for you,
"A friend is a moment that can keep our feet of the
ledge of despair, words are anchors that keep us strong,
I feel like someone just squeezed me alive!
The rain is now pelting down by my side.
Somehow I was let go from my job.
It's nothing personal I guess I'm a snob.
I feel as though my life is closing to an end.
There's no future here for me, my friend.
As an adult I pay my dues.
With no money in my account I am barren blues.
I kind of like a boy who I don't know very well.
These feelings inside me are making me swell.
Should I go hide or burry my face in the dirt.
Or is this a sign that when life really hurts
and the grey skies pour down
and the heavy clouds unburden
their sorrow there has to be meaning
in these wet tears to swallow.
It's kind of like a bittersweet revelation.
A complete failure or a filigree contemplation.
Somewhere deep inside, I weep.
In silent pity I lay to sleep.