Aquamarine.

In the water, I am beautiful;
serene, when its sirens sing
me into seabreeze slumber.
But its rage can wreak havoc
that roars then rips through
roads and rocky mountains.

Elemental eloquence, its
ecosystem is a universe of
underwater excellence.
Aquatic artistry is evident in
every detail, from insignificant
algae to blue whales in all their
breathtaking magnificence.

Capable of capsizing acclaimed
ocean liners that could never sink,
or erasing entire continents
whose Atlantean existence still
remain an unsolved mystery to this day.

Poseidon's power knows no limits,
he could be both—the calm, but
also the storm.
Seamonsters, spinning cyclones,
tsunamis, and hurricanes could
just as simply become seashells,
sandcastles or skipping stones.

And in spite of all its splendour,
we must always remember that
no shipwreck or buried treasure
is worth risking the wrath of rivers
or the ocean's unpredictable nature.

Loose Rap.

I wrote you a four page letter,
we've been back, back, and forth, and forth,
I really needed somebody,
and you showed me my worth.

We rocked the boat like
we were one in a million,
and you made me feel like
I was more than a woman.

Hot like fire, when we started,
and our love's still off the charts,
we might need a resolution,
if we can't reach the stars.

You're the one I gave my heart to,
so you better not let me down,
if you can't be the one I can give my all to,
you've got to tell me now so I can bounce.

Are you feelin' me still,
or do we dust ourselves off, and let it go?
Were you just another one hit wonder,
or are you feelin' me, yo?

I can be your babygirl,
you know I'll hold you down,
but if you can't be straight with me,
I've gotta get back on steady ground.

Spectre.

Losing you left me weightless,
now I float through life, a spectre;
a phantom made the day I woke
to find you'd slipped away.

Fairground.

Read between the lines—

the words often left unsaid.

Worries that weaken the warrior,

exclamations of love that go 

unheard because they begin 

as quickly as they end.

It is a shouted sermon of silence—

like bated breath in a flute, 

it hardly makes a sound.

These memories were melodies,

but now they're the ghosts 

that haunt the carousel 

of our unfamiliar fairground.