patrick, i don’t think wumbo is a real word.

february 27, 2019 — 1:14 pm.

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forward: is there anything left anyway?

have we exhausted harmony for the sake of perfecting imperfect melodies?

is solidarity vanquished by hasty verdicts?

will i ever put rest the momentary storms?

because i don’t remember them being this bad.

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i cant seem to find where i need to go.

for i’ve sailed these seas and charted it’s shores before. i’ve read these lines and hoped for similar treasures. i’ve hoisted my sails in an unknown direction, and i remember sinking my ship, time and time again.

but with optimism and hope, i’d rebuild on the harbor. all the broken pieces would be replaced with used ones. saying goodbye to the people on the dock got easier with time.

and back i’d go into the unidentified tides just to find a fate similar to magellan —

crashing,

not understanding what to do.

crashing,

not knowing where this ship is going.

crashing,

not wanting to lose hope.

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wistful, i sit on beaches, imagining what could have been — if i had only listened — to the cries of the wind.

mournful, i sit by graves, dreaming what could have been — if i had only understood — what could have been changed.

forlorn, i sit on beds, attempting to desert any despair — if only i could — then maybe i’d get some sleep.

melancholy, i sit by sails, disconsolate but radiant — if it’s the only thing i got — there’s no point in letting death win.

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will i ever put rest the momentary storms?

because i don’t remember them being this bad.