When the lightning strikes

and the thunder bites, 

I know I can’t stand the morning,

 

and all of this pain

lets my doctor claim

that I need prescription mourning.

 

The skies are starless,

yet the moon insists

that my sorrow is enjoyment,

 

but how do I tell

the inky darkness 

that my life feels like deployment.

 

The ocean’s heavy,

and the sea is vast, 

but to the earth I’m just a clam.

 

Despite my longing 

and swift devotion,

I will never belong on land.

 

Borderline empty 

and never quite free,

my thoughts will be the end of me.

 

I still have a head

though I breathe in sand;

my end won’t come from my own hand.