Leave your worries by the shore and dip your toes in the sand,
When you can no longer bear to stand,
When the world seems mute and calm,
I wrote a poem, only to throw it away because that’s the last thing I need right now: More of my words dedicated to those who will never dedicate a thing to me.
Can you understand me a little? Someone, somewhere, love me a little?
I dream too much, and I don’t write enough.
All the while, I’m trying to find God everywhere.
Poetry doesn’t cure grief, but it understands.
I belong to the quietest quiet; that’s what’s right for me.
I knew that it was cruel to be optimistic, but in my solitude, I couldn’t resist the urge and spent entire days basking in idiotic fantasies, sometimes on the verge of prayer.
Perhaps I sometimes mistake this ecstasy as simply the absence of grief, which never seems to go away for me, even at sea.
But sleep is ever there in the dark hue of blue.
