Ya, no-
I'm certainly not really all that good at what I do.
my words land in mud
but I'm calmed by the quicksand.
and please just swallow me Earth-
your demands are too oppressive
and your reasoning too foreign.

Comfort has distanced far but from the ghosts
of the skies.
and any touch I am gifted are shoals in drought.
like eternal fasting.
but I never mean to appeal to pity, yet it can appeal to me.
and sometimes I am strong, but it's in vain.
and sometimes I am weak, but I lack further.

At least I can tell it to your face I am not depressed.
Nor cry a tear unrighteous.
Nor will I die from my own hand-
Ya, no. not me.
I know the privilege that is life.
I can at least be proud of that, right ?

And for when I sink, my mind keeps begging the question, "what happens in May?".