It called my name like an old-world friend. I stepped inside and let it test my skin— The water whispered, “you belong again.” But I’ve learned the way the heart survives, By turning undertow to light. So even if the waves collide, I keep breathing in the night. I am not the drowning type, I’m the pulse beneath the tide. Every fall just stirs the rise, Every silence births a fight. The sea remembers every spark I write— I am not the drowning type. There’s salt on my scars, proof I’m alive, Each wound a map, each tear a guide. I walk on echoes, barefoot flames, Unashamed of every name I’ve changed. If I shatter, it’s just to shine, Fragments catching moon in time. And when the deep forgets my rhyme, I’ll sing it louder—mine, still mine. I am not the drowning type, I’m the pulse beneath the tide. Every fall just stirs the rise, Every silence births a fight. The sea remembers every spark I write— I am not the drowning type. Energy lives, it doesn’t fade, It hums through blood, through bone, through waves. Even if the story’s gone from sight, It breathes again when I ignite. I am not the drowning type, I’m the storm that learned to fly. History’s gone, but the energy’s right— I am not, I am not The drowning type.
