My safety net has developed holes,
It’s begun to sink with rising tides
That are bringing plastics and driftwood
Into the already discombobulated foray
Of pinks, greens, oranges, and dust.
My dental-floss fixes promote algae
In places I don’t want algae.
Is this growth?
Have I become burdened with my own safety
To the point I’m now over my neck
And flailing for life?
Is this harmonious with progress,
Or is this the definition of distraction?
I recognize I’m becoming dizzy.