The Depths Within: Uncovering the Oceanic Nature of People Beyond Their Surface #Poetry

They Tell You of Oceans and Call It Skin

You stand there, tracing the edges,
fingers brushing tides painted in warm hues,
the sun-baked calm,
the easy waves that meet your gaze like a stranger’s nod.
Ah, but to think you’ve seen it—
that shallow depth of blue, serene on the surface,
like someone pretending they don’t ache in places unknown.
They tell you of oceans and call it skin,
but they don’t tell you about the silent realms beneath,
where histories twist like dark currents, unseen.

You let yourself drift, admiring reflections,
the light that dances on waves like secrets unkept.
There, you think, is the full measure of things:
a clear sky, a calm ripple, sunlit waters.
But you, explorer of faces, seeker of signs—
you’re chasing shadows on the surface,
and calling them truths.

Dive, if you dare.

They are oceans, yes, but not the ones you know,
not the turquoise fantasies you map on postcards.
Beneath lies depth in ink and storm,
the cold press of stories pressed flat like sand,
the weight of years buried in silted grooves,
where sunlight has never once kissed.
What would you say if you saw it, truly saw it—
the bones of things beneath the gloss?
Would you call it beautiful, then?
Would you call it something to understand?

Go deeper.

The silence here is its own language,
thick with histories you cannot breathe in,
dense with mysteries that would swallow you whole.
There, the tides pull down into trenches,
where names dissolve, where labels sink like stones,
leaving only the vast, open dark.
Do you still wish to know it?
To taste the salt of what no one says aloud?
For here, there are no maps, no markers,
only the raw ache of things long submerged,
the pulse of all that refuses to be named.

And yet, you swim—

not with strokes of clarity, but with blind groping,
searching fingers brushing ancient ruin,
the wreckage of ships long lost to memory,
and dreams cast away like broken shells.
Here, even the silence hums,
low and hungry, an endless drone.
It sings of storms that tore apart histories,
of desires left clinging to the sea floor.
Here, you meet them, the fractured fragments,
the forgotten parts of the whole,
each piece more profound than the surface you saw.

And then, a revelation:

They are endless not in breadth but in being,
each one a thousand unfathomable depths,
a galaxy stitched into flesh,
an uncharted world held just out of sight.
You surface for breath, for the thin gasp of knowing,
but it chokes on the weight of all you can’t hold.
Each face, an atlas you cannot chart,
a cosmos that shimmers for a second, then folds.

You thought they were oceans,
that the waves marked the boundaries,
that the salt and the wind were enough to taste.
But what are tides compared to trenches,
to the heaving dark, to the pulse below?

No, they are more—

more than foam and shallow ripples,
more than waves or simple songs of surface light.
They are the murky, unsounded depths
that even the moon can't command,
currents that change with an ancient rhythm,
and you, a speck in the heart of it, grasping.

To know them is to drown in the quiet of their soul,
to feel the cold bite, the vastness inside,
and surrender, wordless, to the untold.

#PeopleAreOceans #DepthsOfHumanity #InnerWorlds #BeyondTheSurface #HumanExperience #Poetry #EmotionalDepth #SoulSearch #UnchartedDepths #PoetryOfLife #HumanNature #DiscoverTheUnknown #IntrospectiveWriting #OceansOfEmotion #DiveDeeper