The orange moon would float over the lake,
lighting the path the rabbits would run,
screaming, fleeing from their predators.
The bare bones of drowned trees
broke the surface of the water,
poking holes in my reflection,
punctuating the lies I told myself to survive.
My pockets were full of the stones
I carried with me from a thousand miles away,
but I still tried to swim, to keep my head up.
They say the way we drown is silent,
slipping below the waves without a struggle.
Imagine my surprise when I found myself
fighting to get out from under it. I broke free
and made my way onto the welcoming shore.

11/03/2011

Author's Note: So, I was inspired by a friend of mine, who's been posting these poems lately with state abbreviations as the titles, and I thought, I could write poems about the different places where I've lived. The thing is, of course, that if you follow my poetry, or you know me, some of this stuff is going to be familiar to you, and I'm not trying to repeat myself, just trying to get a solid picture of what each place means to me in my mind. After I left Newark, I moved back to Indiana and lived with my mom right outside a town called French Lick. It's near a large man-made lake. We lived right next to a campground named after the large population of rabbits that lived there. I had moved back because I tried to commit suicide in Newark, with pills, but I eventually tried again, while living in French Lick, this time by cutting my wrists. It didn't take. Eventually I got better. It took months, but I got there.

Posted on 11/03/2011
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