Young Writers Society

My soul is like a hunk of driftwood, being tossed and battered unmercifully by the raging seas and gusting winds.

It cries out to be rescued, to be plucked away from the pounding waves, the cold penetrating slaps of spume that engulf me, pulling me down into the inky

Blackness,
the salty lies and sweet, yet phony smiles of the shark, the poisonous, yet innocent stingray....

Oh how I loathe the sea!

My strength, whether it be in the heart or mind, is beginning to fade,
to be sucked from my body like the air in my lungs. My limbs grow cold, tired.

My muscles ache, it hurts to open my eyes.

The blinding sting of the tempest froth and the wind make me ready to give up, to close my eyes, to let the blackness slip over me cracked, bloody lips, to

Sweep,
sweep silently up my nostrils, up to my brain,
to splash and hiss like acid down my torn throat, into my lungs,

Killing me softly, oh so softly.