Mirage.

corpse.

We are our own anchors, you and I.
We will sink every time.
It doesn't make a difference,
To our tarred lungs.
I had tried to bury myself,
With half-hearted poetry.
I had tried to toss
my overused words
in a funeral pyre of
the times that had died
in my throat
struggling to be set free
to be formulated.
But, the ocean is calmer,
and it shelters my fears
of being unheard.
Desperately,
I try to be understood.
Desperation,
weighs me down.
I didn't have to try so hard
to breathe.
To live an echo of a life,
when I could,
float towards the
dim sun at the surface.
Being a shell is better,
Being a corpse,
doesn't weigh me down.
I won't say I have sunk,
that requires agency,
and waves give you none.
That is why perhaps,
I drowned.
Perhaps,
having a dead pair of lungs,
finally let me inhale,
salt air.
I lie in my salt water,
but now,
I don't drown.