“Drifting Between Worlds“
I drift between the hush of waves,
not sinking, not swimming, just floating—
as if the ocean cradles me in silence,
yet never draws me home.
The sky stretches endless above,
but I do not rise, nor do I fall.
Suspended in a weightless hush,
where time does not touch me at all.
Solitude is soft, like mist in the air,
wrapping me in quiet arms,
but isolation lingers like a ghost,
whispering of all I’ve lost.
I feel myself transcending,
as if I am more than flesh and thought,
something infinite, unchained,
a soul unmoored, yet left to rot.
I watch the world through glass—
a glimmering mirage, so near, so far.
I reach, but my hands meet nothing,
as if I am made of air,
as if I was never there.
The stars above do not blink for me,
the tides do not rise at my name.
I am the breath between the wind,
adrift, unseen, unchanged.
And yet, in all this weightless wandering,
in the hush of all I am,
something stirs within the stillness—
not hope, not light, but something soft,
a whisper of a name I’ve long forgotten,
a tether I did not know remained.
Maybe I will rise, maybe I will fall,
maybe I will break free from this quiet abyss—
or maybe I will stay, forever floating,
between what was and what never is.
“Crooked Pages“
The room tilts when I speak.
Walls slant, the floor buckles,
and my words slide off the table
before I can catch them.
I used to write without thinking,
spilling ink like an offering,
letting the lines curl and stretch
like they belonged to something bigger than me.
But now—
now the paper is uneven,
the words smear,
the letters tilt sideways like they’re trying to escape.
And I let them.
Because when I read them back,
all I see is myself—
crooked, unfinished,
a room leaning too far to one side,
waiting to collapse.
“The Weight of Nothing“
It sounds like silence, thick and deep,
A heavy hush where echoes weep.
It hums like static in my head,
A hollow ringing, dull with dread.
It speaks in whispers, slow and low,
Telling me things I already know—
That I am tired, that I am small,
That none of this will change at all.
It moves like water, pulling me in,
Soft at the start, then under my skin.
I watch the world from far away,
Like glass between me and the day.
It tastes like dust, like air gone stale,
Like words unsaid, like prayers that fail.
It grips my chest, it steals my breath,
It lets me live, but not forget.
And yet—somewhere beyond the gray,
Beyond the nights that blur the days,
I think I hear—too faint, too far—
The sound of something breaking hard.
Maybe silence cracks. Maybe light leaks through.
Maybe one day, I’ll hear me too.
“Drifting Away“
I float on the surface, staring at the sky,
The water cradles me like it’s known me all my life.
The voices on shore are distant and dim,
Calling my name, but they don’t pull me in.
My ears are beneath it, the sound barely there,
Just whispers of warnings that vanish in air.
I see their hands waving, I know what they mean,
But the weight of their worry feels foreign to me.
The tide pulls me farther, slow and unkind,
Yet there’s comfort in knowing I don’t have to try.
I could kick, I could fight, I could call for their aid,
But the thought of the struggle just makes me afraid.
What if I reach, and they’re not really there?
What if I stand, and the ground disappears?
So I let myself drift where the current decides,
And let go of the things I once held so tight.
Let it all fail, let it all fall,
The sea doesn’t mind if I lose it all.
And maybe someday, I’ll swim back to land,
But for now, I just let the waves take my hand.