The Ocean and The Pier 

You have always been the pier, standing sturdy and constant against the waves. I have always been the ocean, untamed and violent. 

The pier told the ocean it was too ambitious. The ocean spit and foamed with rage, and sent a crash of waves. 

The pier was weak and eventually caved. It collapsed onto itself, falling into the sea. The ocean swallowed the remains. 

You have always been the pier, and I the ocean. 

Busy

Everything aims to distract. Colors, sounds, signs, lights flashing. Why? What are we being redirected from? Why can’t I find a moment of silence? Peace? Calm? Why must they keep the world buzzing past my eyes and fingertips? Everything always spinning. Flashing. Screaming for attention. 

I just want silence. I want peace. I want everything to stop. Please let me think. Silence, peace, calm… It’s all I want. 

Right

Walking down the dirt path, with the sun beating down onto my back, I could only think of getting home. My feet stung from the boiling earth which kept me from slowing. 

There were no trees to sit beneath. No lake to rinse my feet. No grassy spots to lay. So I kept on walking. When I came to the fork in the road, I immediately turned right. ‘Right is always right’, I thought. 

Soon enough I came to a brick wall directly in the middle of the road. There was no way to get around it, and it was much too tall to climb. I turned around and began walk back. 

‘Left is always right!’ I thought with a smile. 

All Day 

All day long my thoughts have teeth. They sharpen themselves against my skull and sink their venom into my brain. 

      

All day long my eyelids are weights. I have to concentrate to keep them lifted. My eyes are sunk into my skull. What they want most is to never open again. 

      

All day long my hands turn against me. Everything I touch is a weapon. They tremble as they grip the steering wheel. 

     

All day long my skin tries to free itself from my bones. My lips pull back to show a snarl of crooked teeth. It wants to turn me into a pile of rubble. 

        
All day long my feet are dead.  They are bags of sand. I plan each step in advance but they still drag along clumsily, barely allowing me to move. 

        
All day long my spine tries to break. I hear it bending and creaking as I walk. Ready to snap in half at the slightest jolt. 
          

All day long my tounge attempts to slide down my throat. It won’t let me taste joy or fear. It’s just a slab of meat. 

              
All day long I’m at war. I’m exhausted. 

Gone

I’m not sure anything is real. As I’m writing this my hands seem to be floating away. I don’t know where they want to go, I’m too afraid to let them take me there.

Although I know one day I will have to give in. 

I feel hooks in my skin. They are sunk deep into my flesh, They keep pulling. It’s a small nagging, tugging, ripping. My skin wants to leave too. It’s trying to rip off my body. 

It wants to leave me a pile of bone and remaining organs. One day I will have to give in. 

I need to let my hands and skin go. 

Please burn what’s left. 

Hands 

Your hands are rough, the hands of a man who has worked his entire life. Your hands are worn from the sun and from the years of providing for your family. It is shown in your seemingly constant bloody knuckles and raw finger tips.

These same hands held my own. They picked dandelions and caught me before I could fall. They patched up skinned knees. They skillfully applied Halloween makeup and tied my shoes.

Steadily they remained. They sent me soaring through the air on a swing and gently  pushed me towards dreams I thought too big. They wiped away tears when I flew too close to the sun. 

They knew when to take my hand and stand beside me, like the child I believed I no longer was. 

And as I hold your hand now, under these florescent lights, I remember the gentle hands. The guiding hands. The hands that provided. The hands of my father.