some days are worse than others. the tide pulls me under most times.

no buoy or life jacket to keep me afloat.

it's more like an anchor dragging me down into the depths.

some days I can hardly even breathe. my chest hurts from the moment I wake up to the moment I try to sleep.

but I'm just sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I can never swim in.

i look in the mirror and the smile I see is not the one you gave me so long ago.

its just a ghost of a memory I can never get back.

i'm getting better at tricking the darkness into letting it's grip off of my heart.

i'm getting better at keeping my head above water.

i'm getting better at pretending it's all alright even though I'm constantly breaking inside.

i don't know how much more I can break.

i sure do miss you being here.

you were my life jacket that kept me safe from the most devastating hurricanes.

i don't know what I did to make it all go away.

please come home.

A savoury taste lingers on the sailor’s tongue,
As he reaches out into the angry waves
To pull the moonlight from it’s rays
And winds its threads around a spool
Through the night he stays awake
Rapidly sewing together his dreams
He finds himself searching for a lighthouse built from his insecurities

But a fluorescent light dances above,
Far beyond a silver lining,
Left behind by a frozen voice
Of a past self lost in the eye of a hurricane.

the weatherman closes his umbrella & stands under the rain for a long time, after the taxi drives off.

earlier, he was on tv giving an update about the hurricane: the particulars on the direction, the wind's maximum speed, the storm signals - the weatherman could be reciting these from a telephone directory for all he cared. but he kept on saying the storm's name as if it was a lover scorned, yet still very much adored - like the telephone directory wasn't a book full of strangers at all; the weatherman cleared his throat several times as if it was the first name he ever recognized as being bad news. his hand shook through the tv screen when he hovered it over the satellite image of the violent winds.

what is the weatherman thinking about as he stares at his house, now? his rain boots are filling up with water & he just keeps on standing there, gathering what he can of her -

the weatherman lazily fumbles for his keys & unhurriedly enters his front door, like he is sorry to abandon the noise for an echoing quiet, like the four walls are infinitely more oppressive. & yet as droplets form into a series of familiar satellite images following him from room to room,

the weatherman will refuse to mop his unpolished floor. he will leave the water to dry & in the morning, revisit the path of her leaving by the water stains -

the most of what this weathered man can keep from the hurricane's namesake.

-j.g.

I'll be like the wetlands
I'll take the brunt
When the storm rolls in
Let the flood wash
across
my skin
I know how to survive being drowned
So I'll stand my ground

Whether you look up in the trees
Or down to the bottom of the sea,
Mother nature's beauty is plain to see.
But one look at the hurricanes
and fires on tv
Serve as a reminder
Of what she can do
if we make her angry

I saw a girl in that unknown land
Wearing a grey hoodie and a black mask
She was just walking to a location unkown
I felt a wreck was inside her
And everyone judged her
But the truth was...millions of things
were happening inside her.
And she didn't know where
she had reached?

Mumbling a storm
Tumbling like debris
Trembling like a blade of grass
Barely rooted in the ground
Outside it's rather warm
Maybe 90°
While towards the core
Sitting stubbornly on my ***
It's a hurricane
Trying to tear away
Refusing to stay
Yet lightning strikes the sand
Reminding of a hidden glass shore
Lost in a pool of sand
Are the fragments of the soul.

- Jay M
August 10th, 2020