This aqua surf
provides my desk...
upon this seaside breeze,
I lay my head.

And loneliness does clout my thoughts,
for what I need to say, I just cannot.
I'm stuck, afloat atop this ocean turf
drifting nowhere, somewhere all at once.
Frigid waves clapping their hands
serve as my muzzled pleas;
this salty foam's consuming me,
filling my body from within.

So if you ask me, "What's going on?"
If it's something bad, I'll still respond,
"Not much."

And in this sea of which I'm trapped,
there is, beneath, all that I feel,
all that pains me and resides
below the surface, deep down inside...
I long to say all that I need,
and release these liquid chains of me.

Send to me the words to say
besides my "Nothing's wrong" and "I'm okay",
because those are the first that come to mind,
though in my mind they're not the same.

And even through such suffocation,
through such bitter isolation,
I must swim through and see things as right,
saying I'm all right,
despite
things being not.