my eyelids grow heavy...
holding the weight of my choices
one is wet with tears and the other, black and ******
is it not okay to find ourselves?
the more I search, the more my identity turns to sand
tries its hardest to shift and spiral
right out of my clenched hands
continuously, I assure myself that I know who I am
I smile back, I answer calls, I tip the bartender
so I can guarantee that if they found me
washed up on this gritty gravel shoreline
they wouldn't understand that I tried sinking to the bottom...
simply to find my peace of mind  

for under the ground lies a habitat of freedom
an abundance of silence, solitude, serenity
to sink means I've succeeded
but they would yank me to the surface
they always do.
and I struggle yet again
to understand if oxygen and warm towels and emergency lights and people and warm tea and life are a blessing
or if, yet again, my plans to find myself have been hopelessly
foiled...
I really hate warm tea