No man is an island,
but some are surrounded by water
just offshore
away from land.

Maybe we are bridges.
A golden gate or Brooklyn
or perhaps just a wood plank
here to join you to the world.

I am a peninsula,
joined only by one,
attached by but a thread
tenuously perched on the verge of seperation.
Drowning in salt water,
but saved by a bed of flowers.
Securing me to a place I see only from a distance.

Others are continents.
Surrounded by everything
home to many.
The lucky ones who are always full,
joined and attached.
Only a few live this way

No man is an island,
some are bridges,
others peninsulas.
Only the lucky ones are the mainland.