I am the story that's written
by someone on this scratchy
piece of paper, waiting to be told.
All my life I've lived inside
this weather-beaten bottle
that has been endlessly
drifting through the ocean.
I've seen the shores
from time to time,
lighting up a spark of hope
that somehow I'd reach
the dry land; but the riptide
keeps on pulling me back,
leaving me drifting once more.
All I have for company are
the lulling waves and the stars
that lit up my night sky.
And when the grey clouds
fill my view of the sky,
my heart starts to pound
against my chest for I know
that the storm is closing in.
I brace my shaky hands
against the glass, as if these
tiny parts of me could hold
the bottle from breaking,
while the waves start
crashing over me.
When this happens,
sometimes I wish that
it will shatter into pieces instead,
just so I can feel the salt water
wash away the drought from my skin
and let it dissolve me into oblivion.
But everytime the storm
passes by, and I realize
that my shelter stood still,
I always look at the sky and
breathe a silent prayer,
both of gratitude and of hope
that someday I will be found.
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