I used to water my speculation,mixing it with liquid imagery..
then I'd blend it around with subtle stirrings of my thought.
Watching it change from a blank emotion, to something more.
Collecting I used my fingers clasping a way to collect a thin
film of musing swirls and then I'd gently blow..

Little shimmers would collect, floating delicately around
my head. Rainbows of perception, gently encompassing
a moment of a clear rendition. but a reflection only stains
the image held for so long till it dulls in moments before
evaporating in to tears of mist decaying into oblivion.

But then that place where my perceiving waters gently
flowed now seemed more arid than what was previously
perceived. No longer did rainbows form spherically..
No I was just a salt lake of tears, collecting white flakes
of bleached nothingness. My moment was weak, last week
I was serenading imagery now I'm just a dry lake bed.

"My words floated, but now there just dry renditions of
a drought going on in my thoughts"  

*"Were sometimes to thirsty, not realizing that we drank
to fast and the basin of our thoughts have run dry"

On a good day
I could say I'm swimming
under the water

Compared to my usual
days spent in the bottom
of a pit
drown as a stone

<I wish to breathe
and one day maybe
float>

Lift the pressure.
Fly.

You hold me down
so I won't drown
or drift so far away.

I'm tied to you
like the stars to the moon;
like curious to everyday.

A survivor's raft:
will not capsize
but will stay dry
because I'm safe with you on sea.

An anchor:
does not sink a boat;
it keeps it afloat
—that's what you are to me.

Can I take a jump
Into the pool
And surround
Myself
In a aqua hue.

Can I leap gently
And not break
The surface,
And cause
A disturbance
That breaks
The silence.

Can I breathe in
All the water around me;
Soaking it up
Like a sponge,
Diluting my veins
Till I am none.

Can I swim
In your sea
Till a tempest
Drowns me.

Origami sails migrate on the
                        waves of breath,  
motions sway its heading.

a voyage of whispers not
                    collected upon,
Motions are collectively wavering

Shores are never attained for
                              flurries fail,
and it sinks crumpled below.

Sometimes I want to float out my bedroom window;
Past the unkept yellow bungalow,
Past the fir trees and the winter carcasses of rose bushes,
Past all the street lamps and their glow.
It's time to go.
I feel tired and torn and the soles of my shoes are worn.