I am alone in my unhappiness.
In the depths of some ocean cave I will bury my legs in sand and wait for high tide.
When they look at my carcass washed up on the shore they will wonder if I were born to the sea, and you will choose to believe it.

Still in the dark of the night you will hear the clinking of sailboat's masts miles away
and you will clutch at your guts in fervent prayer
and you will sweat your strain until it equates all my wretched tears
and in the depths of some ocean cave I will sit,
smiling.

C A P T O R
Where have I left my
broken sword,
my strong-willed
swift escape?

Tarnished wood tables
 greet me
in rooms I once saw
plated with gold.

A sewing machine hums in some
dark cavity
on a night marred only
by its shortness

I walk past your door
grasping the hilt
I count on you not to stop me
and
my hands are empty
when you do.

A note (on writer's block):
I feel as though I'm losing my inspiration and it terrifies me. The harder I work at improving my writing, the more it feels like I'm gripping the neck of creativity, unsatisfied with whatever it coughs up. I want a poem to surprise me again when I  feel the sting of pines (my favorite smell) or the dense air before rain when it feels like the atmosphere is holding its breath.
Instead, I grow to hate my writing. It infuriates me, but I cannot stop.
I chronicle to share the weight of everything.
When someone else can read your life back to you on paper, it makes it less meaningful, less real.
I live in the world I create for myself.