standing at the precipice
it's a mental dock
i fall face first
into the ocean of
doubts and overactive heart byproducts.
like paper falling
i curl back and forth
endlessly, gracefully
to the murky bottom
the climate matched perfectly with personality
and i can sit lotus and never break to breathe
the surface is just glistening hope, unreachable
a fisher's net of christmas lights
the sun's refraction on salt crystals.
when i reach towards it
i'm reaching towards the sun (indirectly)
my stretching body a javelin,
my torso a bird's feather or a
serrated knife
i want it so bad but my lotus keeps me grounded
my body can't decide whether to uncurl or
lie flat.
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