these days everything is blurry
and i keep forgetting all the things i want to write.
in exchange my poetry is a strange entity
that doesn't quite fit my hands.

these days the sun shines far too bright.
the light upon the ocean water is as good as blinding;
the sand is burning coal beneath my feet.
everything is burning;
but somehow, i still drown.

these days everything is just tumult,
is ocean waves crashing against my back,
begging to pull me in.
the water darkens,
deepens,
does its best to lose me in it.

and when it isn't -
when it isn't, i am wrung dry upon a desert,
half-buried.
it is either storm or drought with me, these days,

and i am ready for neither.