Waves

What am I really?

These words echos endlessly to me as I try to figure it out. With a great deal of doubt I finally come to my conclusion.

I am an artist . . .

But what kind?

I would venture to say a poet as the way my words flow through the page display how the caves that haunt me get washed out with waves but then there's time where I have nothing to say and I cannot write and it's with the spite and anger to rival gods that I rot endlessly in insanity with my mental eating me painfully slow, like a walking zombie . .

It all feels so hollow . . .

So what am I really?

I ponder endlessly as I grasp relentlessly at the passing thoughts in my mind in an attempt to find something worth while.

It's times like these that are the most painful of all and I feel like nothing more than a wind up doll forced to continue this role and roll and roll and roll till I collapse into the abyss at the bottom of the cliff I'm inevitably going to roll off.

As I crash and tumble and stumble over my words it's the crashing of the sea I heard wash everything. For shame that I cannot swim, and why I much prefer the rain that washing over me with the winds.

They go faster, threatening to lift me if it weren't for these shackles. Weightless; it would be a gift to escape this, if only for a moment.

That thought is one I hold when it's cold and I have no place to go ~