On every ship I have been on,
I secretly whispered how we were adrift in shallow waters,
discontent that subtly rolled across the board,
until they created waves too strong to ignore.
“A call for mutiny,” that’s how the captains would see me,
and perhaps that’s how I saw myself as well.

Never once did this dummy sailor want to take the helm or give orders.
All I want is to sail unquestioningly, mop the deck, and rub the wooden floor,
pretending there’s nothing to abhor once we leave the harbor.

But I, too, like to pretend I am a lighthouse on the shore,
and I keep navigating others’ currents
because in theirs, I see mine as well.

Capt’, how could I cover my eyes seeing
two sets of sails, two compasses in navigation,
one rule for the ship, another for the shore.
Here, my fellows run around with shaky legs for a few nickels.
They carried with them the loads you should have shouldered—

while you pocketed gold,
hidden so well inside your cabin,
and pretended to be one of us.

We pulled all-nighters for there was too much to handle,
and you started a sermon on how we should manage our time better,
that too much work was unwise and uncalled for.

We stayed in our lane for a breather,
and you scowled and scorned like there was no tomorrow,
“What an excuse when all of us are caught in a maelstrom!” you snarled.

Oh, these constant sounds of blazing horns.
Oh, the rhythmic swishing and splashes against the hull.
Oh, these never-ending sights of water.
Oh, the horizon that gets further away the more we try to draw near.
There’s no end to them; our screws got loose.

And as our morale began to fall,
our whispers turned to yells of protest,
yet you dismissed them as personal treason.

When we are wrong, it’s our fault.
When you are wrong, it’s our fault.
“Aye, Capt!” is the only thing you wish to hear.

In the end, Capt’, my mates would follow the system
that is already too strong to uproot because those few nickels
can buy us bowls of warm, meatless soup when we are ashore.
And all the yells would fade into echoes,
carried far, far away by passing seagulls.

Or some others would jump ship,
as I wish I would, too.

But I know wherever I go,
I will only be swept by the same tides,
as I hear the seagulls mew the same old song,
and I’ll begin to whisper.