lately, i am a wreckage of bones
sinking into an internal wound.

if woolf had been alive,
she would carefully fill her pockets
with rocks, falling off a gravestone
and tread,
slowly into my skin —
all drenched and waist-deep
in a heavy, black dress.

and down, she slips away.

oh to never resurface
has its certain poetic appeal
so send some flowers
to the bottom of the lake —
it is now a deathbed
for my weary bones.

and down, down, they slip away.

lately, i am but prosaic murmurs
and bloated flesh
and i guess the difference
between drowning and sinking
is the art of giving up.

i guess the difference is that
here, sirens do not sing to lure;
they all still
and mourn a poet's death.
so young,
so wrong,
so tragic.

and lately, i am a wreckage of bones
sinking into an internal wound.
and down, i go.

and down, i sink.

and down,
i slip away.

Swirling in an ocean
of brokenness and passion
hands reaching out for another
but in the end only dragging others further down

Everyone is screaming for help
so loudly they can't hear the people around them
Squirming and slithering
Death slides between us all
Eating away the ones who have taken life for too long
A dose of medicine bringing us the cure to misery
by silencing our own thoughts

Choking on charcoal water
The wet dampens my eyes and my hair
clawing and fighting up to the surface
Where many I know tread on the water with ease
Below me are the people who fell into the tempting calm
above me are the ones who made it

weeds tangle about my legs
threatening to drag my body further down
hands clutch at my wrist in hopes for company
slowing me, hurting me, bruising me
It is my own choice whether I cut their fingers or let them stay
Swimming in the murky waters everyone saying they are alone
each with their own setbacks
ignoring the people furthest from them
and pretending that the water is darker and colder
than it has really been