On drowning (an example of sorts?)

There’s dirt on my feet,

from trudging on the ground I revered.

You don’t have to tell me twice-

It’s not as endearing, now that I am grown.

Pick me for your table setting!

[or,

place me in the compost, if you’d prefer.]

My hands are tired of holding tight;

too tight for my fingers to respire.

My lips are so dry,

from the salty water rushing past the bridge of my nose.

Don’t worry, I see it too-

a seemingly hopeless struggle to tread above the surface of my sad excuses.

Throw me a raft!

[or,

push me towards a waterfall, if you’d prefer.]

My heart is feeling terribly heavy now-a-days,

too heavy to hang above my weary lungs.

My arms are sore and trembling,

from trying to embrace a disappearing sense of comfort.

I know, I know-

It seems I’m grasping at air with my eyes closed tightly.

Feed me a loaf of encouragement!

[or,

give me a poison apple to slay my sense of wonder.]

My attempts at grace are feeble,

too feeble for your fleeting soul to see.