A Letter

Today, one of the campers I've been counseling noticed that I was seeming kinda down, which is surprising, he not being the most observant individual. When he asked me what was wrong, I carefully chose my words, saying that I was worried about a friend who has hit some rough times; this is very true, but it's so much more than that. Upon hearing this, the table of campers encouraged me to write this person a letter. Surprisingly, in my own way, I already had; the poem below. I hope it reaches her somehow.

I Feel Your Pain

I feel your pain,
and it passes through me
like an adrenaline rush,
ripping apart my veins
as they pulse
wave after wave
of injustice and agony.
I see your sorrow
welling in those beautiful oceans
you call eyes,
flowing endlessly
across your soft cheeks.
I reach out
to stem the tides,
my mind lost at sea,
forgetting that you're miles away.
And I hear the cries and pleas
I'm certain you are making.
You ask,
"What's wrong with me?"
I say,
"Nothing."
You ask,
"Will I ever be good enough?"
I say,
"You already are."
But you,
drowning in your tears,
will surely not hear my words,
a sweet breeze
blowing across the salty leagues
that grow larger by the second.

I won't ask you
not to feel this way,
because I know it's
not your choice to.
But know that I am here
with a dry shoulder
and a wet mop
to sop up your sadness.
I know it's not much,
but perhaps I can
lessen the blows
each wave brings,
taking the brunt of the hurt
for mine own.
And I get
that I may be the last person
you want standing by you
in these tough tides.
But I do not ask anything of you,
nor do I expect anything.
I am simply here at bat,
waiting for you to pitch
the ball that's sat
in your park for a long time now.
If you decide
to throw the ball aside
and walk away,
then fine,
game over,
I get it.
But until that happens,
I'll stand, a sturdy statue,
trusting that you'll toss me
something to swing at.