I tremble because I am not the breeze,
because I will never be the the auburn sunset on the surf,
because I will never be as cleansing as the rain.

I weep because I can not nurture half as much as the soil,
and because I have not solidified enough to be a stone.

My mundane body quakes with despair;
because I am too complex to be as simple as the clouds,
and I will never break as beautifully as a barreling wave.

I am terrified because I don't know if I will ever be more than Human.

Sometimes after I've been sitting with her a while,
I swear she calls to me.
I am sprung off of her obscene beauty,
under the influence of her grandiose blues.
The crush of her might upon the anchored
cascades into the mist of syllables,
Her fawning noblemen hold their waivering arms out beckoning me.
She roars with tumultuous lust;
she for I, and I for her.
I don't know how much longer I can resist her request
that I fling myself from this loose soil
into her rapturous grasp
and allow her to envelope what remains.

They told me I had to go to college,
Get a job,
Start a family.
But I wanted to be the ocean when I grew up.
Or even just a wave.
And again they told me to be realistic.
But if I cant be the ocean, then why am I seventy-five percent liquid,
And why do I leak salt water when I am sad?

I think I'll let the sea cradle me to sleep.

Someone once told you that if humans lived many lives, then you were only living your first. It makes sense, there is a thirst that glows through your eyes; a thirst for the world and experiences. You crave interactions with other souls that you unknowingly dent, smooth, tear, and mold. You radiate a naive joy that grips our hearts tight. Your spirit has not begun to quiver under the weight of our world. The dirt and the blood and the filth have not tarnished your effervescence just yet. You are a newborn in this universe. That is why we cling to you like the fog over the coast in the summer. It is why you have such a tight grasp on our chests. We have lived many lives and our bones creak; our souls twisted and scraped up, worn out from too many lifetimes. We are just hanging on to the rare innocent bliss that you radiate through the tips of your fingers and the soles of your feet.