atomic scroll
A turning turmoil,
Deep, dark, and suffocating,
Its tides strangle my raspy breath,
Yet I stand here, blue, numb, and surviving.
A turning turmoil,
Whose waves reflect the prettiest sunsets,
Its waves crash upon shores like scattered pearls,
And create a scenery—oh—so abstract.
A turning turmoil
In which I have learned to swim and stay afloat,
Yet I can never stay within its arms long,
For I am but a breathless human yearning to be a boat.
My skin cripples—like the waters are alive,
Chipping away my skin with passing time,
I can feel the numbness conquer this chipped-away soul,
And yet I wonder if living can truly be a crime.
'Cause, these waters can kill,
Yet we put a label on the gone,
We forget this turmoil can drown those scared,
And in its surroundings, we are just a heavy metal pawn.
Sinking. Sinking. Sinking.
Some make it to 70,
Some can’t pass through fifteen,
Some manage to achieve goals,
And some can only wish to dream.
'Cause as time passes by,
The water will strangle our raspy breaths,
It will snatch away our air, it will gouge out our hope,
And we label them deaths.
We burn the "dead" in fire,
We bury them in earth,
Because why plant them in water,
If that's what stole their worth.
tiny raptor
median wadi