This pink pen & this pink poem, are born without being on mainland;

this piece's words, and now their home, still written in remorseless sand.

On beaches like these, markers are found; and  at Gibraltar's point it's somehow wound...

...up, so that these words of mine, carefully crafted, maycleverly shine:

May's final beams of copper light,
scintillate, their dancing,
till the water meets the night.

I’m a wayward ship, lost at sea.
My boat has holes, and the sails torn clean.
A directionless rudder moves with the waves,
unsure of where to turn.

Once a fine vessel, prim proper and new,
Overcoming the current, sailing straight and true.
Now a broken piece of driftwood, floating, lost at sea,
at the mercy of the tempest’s test.

As tempting as it is, to push on and find the way,
Repairs must be made, starting today.
If not, then surely we will sink to our watery grave
before we find our place.

We must heal the boat, plug the holes and stitch the sails
so we are ready once again to brave
the tumultuous ocean and ride the rocky waves
into the never ending sun

Life keeps striking,
one blow after another,
until my ribs feel hollow,
my spirit bruised.

And then it comes back,
that thought.
Quiet at first,
like a shadow in the corner.
Then louder,
pressing against my chest.

I wrestle with it.
I want to live,
to hold on,
to find a way through,
but that thought
keeps circling back,
like a tide that refuses to rest.

No one sees the battle.
No one understands
the weight of a war fought
in silence.

So I write it down,
trap it in ink,
so it won’t devour me whole.

I am still here,
not because it’s easy,
but because I keep choosing
life,
again,
and again,
even with that thought
always at the door.

The thoughts come sharp,
like glass in my hands.
I don’t fight them,
I set them down.

Ink takes the blade from me,
presses it flat
against white paper,
silent and still.

The page does not bleed,
does not break,
it only listens,
and closes quietly
when I am done.

So I leave my storms there,
bottled in margins,
tucked in a spine.

And when I rise,
my hands are lighter,
my mind a little quieter,
my skin untouched.

Came running home to write this
As I forgot my journal!
Thou shalt not walk
When you cannot write!

What begins as laughter
may end as fire.
Each line I write
is a pact with myself.

Every thought a potential poem
Every poem another facet of myself
I never let y’all slip again
And find myself in deadness.

Summoning the most violent demons
Force them into most beautiful forms
Breaking their neck
By calling their name

Boiling down my pain
Into handsome melodies.
I killed my hellspawn
With an atheist’s prayer.