Silence.              
That’s the
First thing you
Can hear. The sil
Ence is just so loud,
So real, so close, so true,
What everyone needs sometimes.
That’s my favourite part of being there,
Underwater. The world passes away, and
You can hear yourself thinking again.
You can just simply: Be. For once.
The feeling of oblivion, the pressure of
Unreleased air, the escaping
Bubbles to the top
Of the pool, ocean, lake,
The clear water with sunlight
Shining through the depths till it
Reaches you, the feeling of
Oneness with the world
Its past, its present
Its uncertain future, the
Feeling that everything will be okay
No matter how hard it seems now. The
Feeling of weightlessness as your hair undulates
Through the clear water, your body buoyant, your mind
Finally clear. The stillness that overtakes your very
Soul as you stay at the bottom, holding on with
All your might, not wanting the moment
To ever pass, knowing it has to even
As you hope you can breathe,
Impossible as it seems. The stillness
Permeating every aspect of your being, from
Your previously weighed down limbs to your dancing
Hair to your stressed mind to your frazzled soul, giving the
Much needed calm from a busy day. Pushing off the
Depths, feeling the sunlight get stronger, the sur
Face grow closer, feeling the nostalgia to your
Second home where you can see clearly,
Even with your eyes shut tight, your
Breath held. Where you are you.
Underwater.

Deep like a river
As it rolls slowly on to the sea,
The constant current,
Here: swift;
Here: slow; but always
Moving on to the finish,
Cannot be stopped, cannot be altered.
And this river, the long, long river, it
Ends too soon. It rushes into the eternal sea,
Cannot be turned back as it passes through.
Here: it goes over rocks, faster and faster still,
‘Till it drops off,
Landing bleakly at the bottom.
And it rolls on through the ancient  land to its own
Demise in the sea,
Where every river must end. Time carries it out to its
End.
All must come to an eventual end:
    In the eternal sea.

The writer’s life is called lonely;
They dream in desolate lands
As they sink into their solitary sleep-
They see things not made by hands.

They wander o’er the wild places
That their intrepid dreams take them to.
They speak to the hidden dream faces
That e’ery night they imagine anew.

Every night they are doomed to wander,
But not all who wander are lost,
For their day-work is inspired by lands yonder,
And of all the dream-places they have crossed.

Thus, the poet is ne’er to be called lonely,
Though they dream of lonely places.
They see more than us in their visions nightly-
And speak to their hidden friends with hidden faces.

You said to me, “Move, pen, move. Write me into a room where it doesn’t have to hurt anymore, where living isn’t such a chore, where I no longer have to wage cancer’s war.”
You told me to try to be good, that you loved me, and that I should, try to make it through, even though it would be without you.
And she told me that I had to be strong, I had to keep carrying on, and that even though it hurts, I can’t show it- that that would make it all worse; that that would make everyone believe that I’m not who I should be.
And they told me that God has a plan that we just cannot understand right now, that somehow heartache and heartbreak are okay, that there are still bright sunny days that make life worth living, and even though this is all true:
I didn’t think it would be this hard to live without you.