if water was made to taste sweet
and pure and fluid in motion
then why do I look in your eyes
and see a most stormy ocean
where boats do sink
and love is but a barren
island, almost swallowed by
the waves of self loathing.
Where boats do sink,
and lonely travellers need no hope
because they all think
that you are enough.
Your minutes sustain them,
like sand running through
their fingertips till
they're done with you.
And boats do sink
before they wash ashore
you cast out an anchor
but they want more
And so you remain, an island
untouched
your love is barren,
you are not enough.