swim away from the island of despair

swim, swim
because that’s what I do best.
sadly three years have gone by
and still I ravage the dead airspace with tales
of my fortitude in the water.

and when you’re parked in alcatraz
or stuck in azkaban
hounded by ghouls and your own
dementia
you can’t help but think
those three years of bragging rights might have been
better served
by practice somewhere in a pool.

swim, swim
the dry shores of sanity
with the crisp cool air and breezy sunrays
and noticeable wasps of fruit and honey:
what a fucking evil temptation.

a carrot to be dangled here
as I struggle out there in the water,
always gasping and wondering whether
the next stroke is my last.
and never does it feel like I’m being pulled under
or as if the waves won’t let me go
but their motion is relentless. the only relaxation
is to flip over on my back
and breathe.

swim, swim
and up this current I go.
and sometimes I make my way through
and find a lifeboat
and wake up just fine on a sandy beach.

and others I lay awake here
and wonder
what simplistic metaphor is the key I need to use
to get out of this mess.