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Poem

The moons and the tides
Strongly coincide,
Pulling up and away,
Tugging the sand from the bay.
My mind is a lot like the sea in that way.
It dips and it falls,
It falters and it crawls,
But then sometimes learns to just be.
To exist in my mind is a paradox you see,
An absurd conglomeration in actuality.
The grace of the waves and the glow of the moon,
Hold their cosmic connection betwixt their midsummer monsoon.
I tell my tired thoughts that they exist as a metaphor,
As a final weak attempt just to breathe.
To find some purpose in these days is the truest tragedy,
To wander this world without aim.
Your words sweet like honey tell my mind not to worry,
To find comfort in solidarity.
They take place in my head,
Turning from sound to shape,
Spindling their fingers over my nerves as I shake.
How I wish that I wasn’t born this way,
But what could I quite possibly do?
Every soul I’ve ever known has abandoned my side,
Taking my absence in grace and in stride.
I’m not a loss to them but they are to me,
A piece of my wrist hosting a new seam.
These are the days in which I wish not to breathe,
To push my head underwater and let my tired lungs squeeze.
I wish to struggle for air,
My body not willing to let go,
But to force myself to slip into the unknown.
For my lips to turn blue and my blood to go cold,
Would surely be better than the scornful gaze that you hold.
It surely must be better than my sliced wrists bleeding,
Dripping as I clench my white teeth, seething.
O’er the rainbow is the place in which I’ll go,
Even if the rainbow is black.
For black is better than living with myself,
And one day I’ll finally take the road less travelled and never turn back.

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