Castaway

The sun is hot today.

It leaves my skin red like ink jets printing over a blank piece of paper.

The clouds are shields deflecting the fire arrows.

But still I'm pierced.

I find myself standing naked and vulnerable, barefoot in the sand.

Yet I am stagnant.

The waves crash like cars on the overpass and crawl further up the shore.

The message in the bottle is never washed upon my feet.

Surely I will drown waiting around for a lower tide.

Do I build a raft and stay afloat and drift away into the ocean?

And be carried away in the arms of the waves like a child newly born.

Or do I carve the word "HELP" in the sand like razors meeting flesh.

And hope it doesn't go unnoticed, or get washed away by the water like chalk off of a board.

See when you're castaway on an island, your only company is failed attempts at building shelter or fire or catching fish with your bare hands.

Days passed are counted on rocks as tally marks.

Months turn into years and years are just time that you have lost.

See when you're castaway on an island, your only company is failed attempts at trying to find your way out.

But you can't.

Because the island is in your head.