wave

Although a wave is a sign that an interloper

Has disturbed my elysian medium, 

Which I call Eden,

I’ve decided that I need to start welcoming it

Since I typically

Worry-About-Various-Events.

Past, present,

Hypothetical or inevitable.

I’d reject the possibility of a bit of change,

In fear of bitter change for a better change. 

They’ll continue to swirl and eddy 

And serve as a snapshot of my particular delirium. 

I’d just want to enjoy my bath and throw on some Mary J songs,

Enjoying that whirl of medleys,

Having a blast putting cucumbers over my eyes

Rather than pondering over existentials and wrongs. 

Ya dig? That’s not the wave. 

So I take a bath bomb– 

A pink one by the way–

And now it’s as if I’m wallowing in a vat of rosé.

I can’t help but to sink into my comfort.

I hold onto it, I protect it.

Like how a broke man’s hand clenches

On to his lottery ticket. 

However, the more that I squeeze, 

The more that I’ll bleed. 

I suppose that’s the lifestyle of a rose. 

Once I let go I’ll finally be...

Free