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if the ocean would carry me
it'll collapse under the weight of my bones
made with cement and steel
and the burden each brick owns

witness the waves howler and scream
just like the heart caged in my chest
blood bubbling around the muscle
surging with every beat and protest

the bottom of the sea may be quiet
like my tongue folded neatly in my mouth
though feral beasts deep within
choke with pressure more than i can count

the ocean and i are seperate
both flowers from different gardens
one ephemeral, one wilting before your eyes
but both's head tilting up to the heavens

sorrowful eyes, swirling, storm awakening
chaos mingling betwixt water and blood
ravid souls in dire need of feeding
cursed and blessed by god

i wonder if i could carry the ocean
within just the corners of my palm
i and the ocean - we are one
a catastrophe after the calm
i love the ocean. it makes you feel a lot of things.
Do not stand
          By my grave, and weep.
     I am not there,
          I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
     Do not stand
          By my grave, and cry—
     I am not there,
          I did not die.
— Clare Harner, The Gypsy, December 1934
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do_Not_Stand_at_My_Grave_and_Weep
When we were young we loved so much
The plans we made and the time we lost
Together we learned to face our fears
It was just another time of years

We lived, we loved and we tried so hard
We watched our children grow
We made our place and we cried our tears
It was just another time of years

Now it’s time we are looking back
We both know where we’ve been
We stood strong beside all our piers
It’s just another time of years
if I talk
it’s like I'm falling in the answer
everything I say is a quiet question to myself
sweaty hands
messy hair
baggy clothes
harmed lips
and
eyes looking down

yet I do poetry
but nothing helps my clarity
It does help,
but who on earth wants an answer
in rhymes and metaphors?

Tell me.
Not all rivers
end up in the ocean–
doesn't make their journey
less worthy.

Not all love
ends up in a lover's arms–
doesn't make it any less
worthy.
God bless the poets!
The pollinators they are!
The architects of the soul's garden,
The rain-bringer of sleeping seeds,
The ones who witness and testify
The pain of growth,
Applaud the blooming,
And invite the bees.
I tell myself lies
To protect my ego
Twist what I know
Ignore the bruise on my pride
I tell myself lies
You enjoy my poetry
You feel very flattered by me
You may not care to see
Or even know me
But I tell myself lies
I pretend to believe

— The End —