#wading
This poem is everything
I didn’t erase
The sea I swam until
the shore was closer
than drowning.
My mind took so many detours.
I ran toward the sun,
become tangled in why
I didn’t do the dishes,
wondered if my bookshelf
had one more space for Apocalyptic.
Sitting in the litter of what
I couldn’t complete I question
if this is poetry or confession.
Tuesday has way more ink
than I have words for paper.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 2:23 PM UTC
i am drowning in a pitch black sea:
gasping for air,
and swallowing water.
my throat stings,
as i claw at the liquid,
finding nothing to hold onto.
the water reflects the beam,
from a lighthouse.
i scream out:
to the light;
i scream out:
to you.
but it never finds me,
and neither do you.
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 4:14 AM UTC
The water dances
silently under the
moonlight,
streetlights
reflecting onto
the river
in hues of gold and cerulean,
fish fluttering to the
surface
in arhythmic,
unpredictable
time sequences.
I sit
near the metallic railing
that guards
the liquid edges;
I inhale slowly
as my eyes
absorb all the hidden
color in the darkness
of the blackened
summer night.
The bushes arch toward me,
extending their leafy green fingers
in a hushed reassurance.
The mulch under my
lower body
is slightly poky
but weirdly soothing,
and I seem to melt
into the ground
as I lounge in a silent Indian style.
The back of my head
occasionally
grazes against the tree
behind me
as the sprinklers
just miss
my relaxed frame.
In long waves and splashes
of confusion,
self-doubt,
and loneliness,
I manage to retreat
to some, if only temporarily,
state of serenity
as I perch on the shoreline.
It's as if I lose myself
below the water,
all the heaviness drowning
& sinking to the bottom,
and my much lighter
outer shell
waits, wading on the
nearby soil.
Sometimes I have
this fear
that I'll always be
alone,
one of those people
who just
"isn't destined to be
in a (loving) relationship,"
and in the meantime
all I get
are half-genuine,
wholly-awkward
"it's just not your time" 's.
Will there ever be a time
that is mine,
where I can let
my inner hurricane
fizzle out,
waves of infinite
heart to extend to
another, crashing down
onto a sandy white beach?
My spine suddenly
tingles,
existential crisis
swimming up and down
my icy veins,
clogging my
arteries;
shortly before fainting
from the crushing
weight of it all,
the sound of an airplane
flying overhead
snaps me out of my
analytical coma,
and the
ripples
put me back to tranquility.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC