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Creative Writing



In the depths of my longing, a tempest brews
and in those waves, a raft,
of multiple, broken logs -
in which I fancy myself a sailor,
barely afloat and clinging,
surrounded by wooden splinters
that pierce the flesh of my yearning.

the tide is unrelenting,
a maelstrom of torment,
and, perhaps, desperation.

my grip slips upon the decay,
battered by the ruthless, roiling waves
that pushes itself past my defenses,
shoves itself down my throat.
the taste of past devotion lingers - 
or, at least, I like to think it was such -
salty and sharp - stinging.
it gnaws at my core,
devouring all reason and logic,
leaving me gasping,
begging for a reprieve that never comes.

and when I drown,
a coiled kraken of need and doubt
writhes in the chambers of my chest,
a leviathan,
of all that I have buried –
affection, or what could pass for it,
what I know of it,
bittersweet and rancid,
a poison that seeps into every crevice,
searing its mark,
branding the soul,
leaving scars that ache with every single beat.

when I wash up on the brine,
regretfully - and stubbornly - alive,
memories resurface, of monsters -
and of heartless gods, maws agape.
I want to curse them - Poseidon specifically,
because I am reminded that I love you.
despite of. in spite of.
in defiance of.
yet, still,
I crawl on the sand,
towards the shore,
past the surf,
and wade in deeper,
again. and again.
despite of. in spite of.
in defiance of.

- Anonymous