I am sitting on a tilting chair near my desk,
A grey cloud pouring rain drops over my head,
My patience running thin as bodies of water
Run through me, Desperate,
as if the laundry in the back is getting wet.
A piece of paper lays on the desk,
Empty, as if my thoughts are on me
Instead than on it.
I’m holding onto my pen,
Maybe a little too tight,
The water hasn’t gotten here yet,
I really feel like I have to write.
I look up and the cloud is getting bigger,
Waves style my hair,
Rivers run down my arms,
My socks are getting wet,
And so is my pen.
There’s water up to my ankle now,
Items in my room are starting to float,
My desk turns Into a sailing boat
And without me it roams.
Water grabs my waist
But not as intimate as how
My tilting chair embraces the ground.
Im on my own now,
Waiting for my oxygen to run out,
The water filled my room
It is still a mess.
My arms feel heavy,
I let go of my pen,
I watch as it falls on my tilting chair
It hasn’t moved an inch.