I am adrift in a sea of both rhymes and alliteration.
Of both lies and obliteration.
Of both ties and obligation.
I am adrift in a sea of both degradation and pain.
Of both sane and insane.
Of both space and plane.
I am adrift in a sea of both ideas and emptiness.
Of both of melancholy and happiness.
Of both empathy and cruelness.
I am adrift in a sea.

I keep trying to dig myself out but the dirt just rains down harder.
Torrential.
A hurricane of eluvial torment.
In a hole miles deep.
Can't look up.
It gets in my eyes.
My shovel is dull and deteriorating.
The handle splintered years ago.
Slivers in my palms.
Infected and festering.
My grave it seems.
I've stopped digging.
A soul released.

Polaris,
the north star,
unrivaled in her beauty,
unchallenged in her brightness.
Forever shining amongst the abyssal plain.

Unstable and full of holes, tunneling blindly through life, on par with the moles.
Soaked in the waters of defeat, washed away was the path being lain at my feet.
Trampled on by normal life, unsuccessfully struggling through this horrid strife.
Tears, tearing into my face, eroding  the surface, searing my flesh and spinning my spirit out of place. Stinging my eyes and salty to taste.
Everything seems like a waste when life continues to debase.
Sound is amplified, deafening like roaring thunder, rolling through the plains.
Light becomes unbearable and blinding. Only darkness seems to please. Darkness, it becomes a way of living.
The smallest stimulations are torturous and unforgiving.
Crackling embers, acrid smoke, the air runs thick with loss of hope.
Ablaze am I with an orange anger, a fire stoked by reckless danger.
The fire forging the iron that is my stoicism, unconsciously wrought through criticism.
Laying happily in the abyss.
Enjoying the bliss that is my mind gone a miss.
My conscious cohesion is fractured and falling,
trapped in my own thoughts and I find it appalling.
Contained by the fact that I cannot keep stalling.
Moving forward is the hardest challenge.
I'll find out if I can keep it all in balance.

All hail the dragonfly, master of the sky.
Master of the swamp.
Master of it's prey, be it orange, white or grey.
Perhaps the common whitetail, zooming all about,would choose to dress in the blues and hues of the dasher and wallow in the clout.

Don't mistake him for the damselfly, he'd rather die, he wouldn't be seen like that.
Even through the magnificence of his multifaceted eye.

All that structural coloration makes him look like a Christmas decoration.

All hail the dragonfly, master of the sky.
Master of the swamp.
Master of it's prey, I'll hail it each and every day.