I have written
and written ‘till the tides roll in –
wave after wave
with each word flailing helpless
in the crashing surf. Similes pounded into
fine sand, while my metaphors are drug out
to unfathomable waters to sink.
I have cut my feet on the whitest coral
as slender crimson threads on paper shells spill into verse.
Beneath the surface a desperate kicking propels each
line upward for air. Clownfish nibble at my intent,
while ropes of seaweed strangle my meaning.
My muse sings like a distant siren and I am dashed
upon jagged rocks.
I am no poet or writer to contend, but my voice seeks purchase.
This poem is drowning and there is little hope of rescue.