Yesterday I fumbled for pieces
that slipped through fingers,
never to resurface again
An identity crisis every night—
My sense of self erodes away with
every crash against the rocks
The foam and froth seeped into the ocean
like incandescent spinal fluid tapped
from an eviscerated corpse
And the moon refused to reflect herself
off my waters.
YOU ARE READING
A Meaningless Collection
PoetryA collection of variously themed poems that I write mostly on my commute to class or when I can't find a reason to fall asleep.
