The river seemed gray, muddy and dull.
The fishes had died, so the fishermen starved.
The hard stone on the riverbank was overcome with algae.
The riverside stood still, ruined with its spirit in grief.

All the fishes’ folk attempted to breathe life into the dead.
All fishermen fought fights amongst themselves.
All efforts failed and the folk sank in the cemented graves.
All the fishes’ graves stood six fishes apart.

Death in the river and at the riverside became customary till none were left.
Death came to the fishes and their folk.
Death was brought to the fishes by the fishermen, they brought
Death onto themselves.

I breathe out all my insecurities.
I am alive, and content.
Calm and tranquil thoughts
Overcome my body and mind.

My problems seem far away.
They are floating away on a ship.
I am waving goodbye at them
At dusk, when the sky’s orange.

Joy flows within me with grace
Like that ship floating peacefully.
The lighthouse’s beacon turns on,
Breathing light into me.

The cold breeze ruffles my hair
Like my mother would.
I swim back to sleep,
Back from the water.

Still wet, and cool.
Yet, warm enough to fall asleep.

I don’t know what to do about myself.
It seems like nothing is really working anymore-
How i speak, write and feel- it obviously isn’t working.
How I’m sitting because the mosquitoes are attacking me.
It isn’t working that I’m speaking to nobody.

You know, what is working?
The light is working,
I have enough food in the kitchen.
I have a roof over my head.
I’m wearing clothes that I adore.
I have a lot of books from which I can study.

Things seem to be bad.
But then,
They’re not as bad as they could be.
I’m thankful for that.
I’m really happy for that.

Sometimes, happy isn’t enough.
Sometimes, you gotta be sad- real sad.
Sadness for each person is different.
My sadness is different from a person
Who cannot afford food.

My sadness is that I don’t know who I am anymore,
Who I will be,
who or what I will want.
Basically, I know **** about myself.
That is what my sadness is about.

I write about my emotions.
“Why don’t they work?
Why don’t they work properly?
Why don’t they work like I want them to work
Or sometimes, why do they work too much like I want them to work?“

It is just bad that
My emotions look like that to me.
And yes, I hope that I like “Imagine”
When it comes out on Friday.
I hope that “Imagine” works out for me.

I might drown in the sweats of my own leisure.
It speaks to me, “Where have you been?
Why have you been working?”
It holds me down like a prisoner
Who most times wants to rot inside, or else run far, far away.

My jailer is the trappings of useless fountains.
And my inmate- a better version of myself.
The bars are selectively permeable.
They only let me out when I’m enlightened
And throw me back in at the slightest hint of bore.

I am a convict,
because I am human.

I went to see the winter sky at night.
I was in the hills, and the wind blowed ferociously.
The stars looked so bright, my eyes-
They could almost see myself in that light.

I was so dead when I was in the hills that night,
I couldn’t feel anything except for cold numbness in January.
I slithered out lies
When they asked if I was doing alright.

I felt like a black hole amidst heaven’s bright.
I stood in the balcony to listen to animals, calmly.
But I couldn’t hear them over the sound of my goodbyes.
During those dark and numb winter hours, I lacked sight.

I was dead back then,
I am a little less dead now.
I hope I am alive someday.

It hurts when the darkness takes over.
After that, it hurts no more.
Dead before the storm is felt then on.
It continues on and on.

The storm is supposed to arrive but
prolonged silence is “not” heard.
It fears something inevitable.
What’s nagging is the unknown.

When the storm does not arrive at all,
the dead before it persists.
It stays there, asking about the storm.
I sigh- “It did not arrive at all.”

I switch between believing myself to be great
and then crying for what seems like eternity.
I ride the rollercoaster
with the high-highs and low-lows.

The “high-highs” consist of paradise and normalcy.
The “low-lows” contain self doubt and abnormality.
I am a bird in the sky
then an insect in the grave.

I fly and become one of those euphoric beings.
Then, I become an insect and compost the dead.
I spread my wings wide to waft.
I crawl in the crypt like a creep.

I am but a bird and the insect.