Psyciatric Sea
Wander down the rain soaked lane, glancing at the streams so vain. Who are they to think that they're free? When they can't prevent their return to the sea.
You drink a soda, save the bottle. You hope to death that you'll win the lotto. Then you remember that money's a curse, everyone wants you, it just makes things worse.
Down the hill and past the park, you wander though it's nearly dark. The thoughts won't stop knocking around in your head, dear diary, here's a poem for you, you said.
In spite of me this world keeps hopping, it's all about power and it ain't stopping. I think I might drown in this torrential flood, floundering for footing, I keep grasping at mud.
Past the coffee shop, down to the docks, you wander with purpose, it's not like your lost. Out to the end, a fair bit from town, the docks have run out, and the sea is straight down.
You arrived and there's no one to judge, peace comes, you stop nursing the grudge. You cry in the rain as you stare at the sea, you tuck the poem in the bottle with a note, "to be free".
It slips from your fingers, to tired to throw. You fall to the dock with your napsack in tow. You wait to watch as the tide takes its toll, your thoughts out to sea as if taking a stroll.
Peace comes at last, their out of your head. You no longer contemplate ways to be dead. You turn to leave, glance over your shoulder, the bottle has left but it still makes you bolder.
