Drowning

Do you see that I’m drowning?
Or am I that far out at sea?
When I beat the water around me
so violently
it turns to white foam,
do you ignore it?
I can’t say that I’m helping.
I muffle my screams into the ocean
so that I don’t disturb you.
Because I know you captain a sinking ship.
And you don’t know where you’re going
or how to get there.
You’re learning as you steer,
and you’re learning alone.
You don’t let anyone help you
because you are proud.
But that’s what is killing you,
and me,
and those you carry.
Do you see the tragic future
unfolding before your eyes,
or are you blind?
Were you born blind,
or did the world destroy the vision,
so pure, so delicate, so sacred,
that every child is born with?
Or have I really been drowning for so long,
and lost so much hope,
that I no longer see logic in the way that you steer.
That even if you were aiming right at me,
I would no longer believe it.
Sometimes I feel selfish when I see
you aren’t saving me.
But I tell myself to think of your ship.
The bodies you’re trying to bring to safety,
as well as your own.
And lord knows I cannot help you.
And I try so hard to believe
that when you are steering
you use me as a direction.
To swim to.
To guide you.
But I cannot forget,
like me,
you are also drowning.