An Ode of the Romantic Category, I Suppose

 Synthetic stability buoys my brain,

Much like the markers in the lake-

A warning for those who dare crane

Their necks to see out past the horizon.

Uppers, downers, waves of chemicals

Ripple through neurotransmitters and veins

No longer comparable to the glide of water.

Perhaps the goal is to merely exist

And end this never-ending creativity slaughter.

restless storms at sea (temporary title)

This place isn’t what it used to be. It’s no longer my sanctuary. Though I’m still a lost ship, I’m unable to call this room my harbor. The light in the tower has gone out. I’m not destined to be found. I’ll stay at sea and drown as countless sleepless nights wash over me. No search and rescue team will waste their time on me, not when those worthy of saving are drifting away.