Bent like a sapling,
In the wind of my imagination.
I have been cast off to the ocean,
Where I flounder
With each page that washes by.
Oh the irony of
The swimmer's tale
You'll die if you don't breathe,
But you'll drown if you do.
I turned to the treading water,
Walking along the sea's bright margins.
Inhaling the salty metaphors.

I fear the white roar,
Underneath the lapping sapphire sheets.
Raging in the silence of the sun-struck afternoons.

I turn the pages,
And read the words.
Time, like the tides of an ocean
Goes in and out,
Where seagulls shriek across the arid green waves eroding the coasts;
Is the alarm that blares across
The four walls of my room.
And like half-moons
My eyes slid open
To witness the limits
Of my only peace.

As a child, I built paper boats
Out of discarded poems,
Words I could never speak out loud,
Letters of my harsh reality.
I would set them a sail,
In a bucket of water
Where I painted the bottom blue
To mimic the ocean.
A phantom wish, to drown my pain.

Still to this day, I hang my head low,
And clutch my bag closer to my chest.
To avoid the eyes
Of my rough peers.
In the eyes of the adults, a promise they see,
But to the ones my age
They see nothing but an outsider,
An outcast who speaks a foreign tongue.
A brilliant pupil who outshines most,
But appears dull.
A bitter competition,
Unfavorable to them.

They throw words like stones and punches that feel like iron.
Making a mockery of my torn clothes.
I never feared tigers like their jerking hands and muscled thighs,
That rise to kick.
The same hands and feet used to climb trees and cliffs,
Scale walls and running in the streets to fetch a friend to play ball.

They make my eyes fill with salty moisture,
When they copy my lisp behind my back;
Like angry dogs biting at my tail.
They are lithe, waiting behind hedges
To stone me with mud and insults,
But I looked the other way.
Saying not a word,
As I pretend to smile.
A stark contrast to their evil grins.

But when the day is over,
I crawl to my hide.
The comfort of my four walls and pillow.
After a long wash and a sobbing session,
I lay down to see lavender fields,
The pastel blue sky
Above the green foliage;
Bruised with light, dancing in the air
A beautiful niche.
I am a grey chill edge with wood smoke,
From reality's ruthless games.

I voyage all night, chained to the mast of some wild narrative.
Temporarily free from life's nonfiction tales.
Free in my slumber,
And like before where sapphire waves lap at the shore,
Vivid green afloat;
Where peace meets my paper sailboats.
I trudge down to the waiting water,
Hoping to drown again.

© WarningKoala