5 letters I wrote.
5 pencils I broke.
5 letters forgotten.
My food is all rotten.
From spending my time staring.
At my pages that I’m tearing.
And I sit here and wonder: why are we alive?
To fulfill this doom where we no longer strive?
Or is it to ponder and question ourselves,
Where no one can help us and no one can delve,
Deep in our lives where we never had help.

And I’ve come here to ask this simple task.
Don’t leave us alone, in this helpless grey zone.
Where writers can’t write, and spirits can’t fight.
And people never forgive things that hurt them.
They spiral into mayhem
They cry out and scream, “How could you do this to us!”
“We’ve tried and we’ve tried, but we feel worthless!”
Then they cry and they cry and I pretend to sympathize.
Why is living so hard?
5 questions I asked, no answers I grasped.
I guess this is how I end.
Or maybe this is how I began.

the grey against the blue sky,
      metal bars,
            power coursing,

it pokes high above the horizon,
      tall,
           mighty,
                     human,

nova scotia's hills don't rise up nearly as far,
     flat in all directions,
                  textureless, and
                                  so, so wide,

large trucks drive beside the tower,
      small,
            pathetic,

A bigger truck comes by, washed in red,
      loud,
            bright,
                    blaring,­
    
the smell of smoke upon the suits of the
     brave,
           the daring,

the big, blue, cloud-filled, wonderful sky,
       blue no longer,
                    their hope,
                             lost in minutes,

no death, yet so much smoke,
      smoke,
            like the swirl of sand in water,

the water sitting near the strong metal bars,
       the telephone tower,
                         still tall and mighty,

the water with the highest tides in the world,
       rippling hard,
                  against the rocks on shore,

orange buoys float roughly in the harbour,
     a line to never,
                     ever cross,

kids will boat out there with their paddles,
     the breeze knocking them,
             side,
                  to side,

and the world breathes in, for it holds all,
       good or bad,
                  and it is full,

full despite everything.

i am a piece of broken glass lost at sea,
i am sharp; quick; clean; unforeseen
i am slowly ground down into the sand—
softer and softer i go in its hand
i drift slowly nearer to the humans' humble abode
until i wash ashore uncovered, i groan,
i am stuck in the land of the living
sea glass is nothing more than what humans are giving,
i am a piece of sea glass in his collection
when he found me? i have no recollection
he is me and i am him,
people have no clue that he is my victim.

my soul cries,

and i know, i know souls cannot cry, but if they could, mine would, forever,

and always,

the wind brushes the soul that cries, and my face wets with the invisible tears,

for my pain is deeper than water, deeper than sand, it is the pain we all hold above us,

i hold all their pain.