Shipwreck

I’m a shipwreck, ruined at the bottom of this salt-blasted canyon. 

Life. 

Will take you for all you are worth, and leave you, foundering, in an ocean of realism. 

And yes, I sank. But my worth will never be measured in pirate gold. 

Reality is a myth. 

The only way out of this grave is to write myself a wish that someday I will wash up on shore, as drift wood if nothing else. 

That someone will read the broken spine of me and make me into something beautiful again. 

Poetry is my last resort. 

So put it in a bottle. Cast it out to sea. Words are the only thing freer than my dreams. 

Poetry. My lighthouse. My foghorn. My reminder that ‘grounded’- is just another word for hopeless.

 Poetry. It was the color of the sunrise on the day I realized that my bones, were just bones, and I was only a tragedy if I wrote myself one.