I feel as if there is blood on my hands;
Tiny splatters that resemble sand,
This is not a beach, no–
But there is an ocean somewhere,
And I’m drowning in it;
I fear I cannot be saved.
I see so much more as I go down below,
The more brightly each fish seems to shine,
Yet they are too far away for their paths to brighten mine.
Deep beneath these waves of contempt,
Underneath layers and layers of hair unkempt,
Lies the answer to mankind’s curse.
I doubt it shall ever be found,
Or has it been already buried underground?
Perhaps it is what we once wished to be,
A memoir of all the places that we wished to see;
Perhaps it is all the times we do not regret,
Or a collection of our promises not kept;
Maybe it is simply full of our hearts,
And all of our sentiments of love.
It may only contain a silver key,
Laden with jade and many sea-weeds,
Unlocking a door that we cannot find.
If I shed all my tears and–I cry,
Will life still just pass me by?
I guess I will finally know once it is too late,
For it is impossible to deviate on the path of fate.
All of this exits from my head,
A portrait of my visions as I lie in bed.
I have lied to you as does the dying crow,
For I do not fear untraveled waters, no;
I am not plagued by aqueous nightmares of blue–
But rather I am tortured
By dreams that never did come true.
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 2:32 PM UTC
I feel as if there is blood on my hands;
Tiny splatters that resemble sand,
This is not a beach, no–
But there is an ocean somewhere,
And I’m drowning in it;
I fear I cannot be saved.
I see so much more as I go down below,
The more brightly each fish seems to shine,
Yet they are too far away for their paths to brighten mine.
Deep beneath these waves of contempt,
Underneath layers and layers of hair unkempt,
Lies the answer to mankind’s curse.
I doubt it shall ever be found,
Or has it been already buried underground?
Perhaps it is what we once wished to be,
A memoir of all the places that we wished to see;
Perhaps it is all the times we do not regret,
Or a collection of our promises not kept;
Maybe it is simply full of our hearts,
And all of our sentiments of love.
It may only contain a silver key,
Laden with jade and many sea-weeds,
Unlocking a door that we cannot find.
If I shed all my tears and–I cry,
Will life still just pass me by?
I guess I will finally know once it is too late,
For it is impossible to deviate on the path of fate.
All of this exits from my head,
A portrait of my visions as I lie in bed.
I have lied to you as does the dying crow,
For I do not fear untraveled waters, no;
I am not plagued by aqueous nightmares of blue–
But rather I am tortured
By dreams that never did come true.
a poem about dreams and everything we did not become.