Maybe it wasn't sporadic,
but I saw the outbreak coming nonetheless
and this complication isn't remedied painlessly

Until I finally fell and landed perilously where I'm not even wanted
but feel somehow that the pain belongs to me
and I belong to it

Its mine and I'll keep it; oceans could be deeper.
You can't float lifeboats on land

But when the wind becomes black ink,
and I can't lean against the running trees;
I block my face and chase after them

and while I know I think in metaphors and not similes,

I like to think I lie
and I'm only myself,
darkly and simply realistic