This beach house is blue
Yet it feels gray.
A sign on the wall points to the ocean
But actually it's pointing to the bay.

The walkway is lined with seashells
That are broken, jagged, and painful.
The front door doesn't even open
The force needed is almost shameful.

The feeling inside the rooms upstairs
Relates to its dark and boxed-in design
The oppressive weight of dead eyes
Watching for one step out of line.

Its uncomfortable and terrifying
Hardly a place for relaxation.
But each gray year we come here
To get more depressed on vacation.

Look at how large the tree is
with all of its branches
reaching for the sky.
Look at all of those people
hanging off the edge,
limply swinging into each other.


What a disaster.

Everyday he used his tools
to work on a fence.
He hammered and sawed
and hoped to God
that he would not cause offense.
To his neighbors,
to his friends,
he just could not let them see
how much he had let his yard
become overrun with weeds.

His heart was too weak
to deal with the stares
of people who said they cared.
So he built a fence
that was ten feet high
around his yard
around his mind.

He hammered in that last nail
to the beat of his pounding heart.
As the clouds gathered overhead
and he realized that it was getting dark.
He pushed himself up hastily
but he tripped over his own feet.
His hands covered in splinters
while he felt his heart shatter
he dropped to the ground
ignoring the clatter
of the wood and the nails
that flew from his hands.
His crippled heart skipped a beat.

The rain started to fall
and he forced himself to his feet.
He sprinted into his home
as his splintered heart hammered
in his shaking chest.
He sat down on his couch
forgetting his tools outside
and the whole mess.

Weeks then months then years passed by
and people who wandered the streets.
Saw a fence that went up one night
start to decay before their very eyes.
...
"What happened to the man who lived in that house?"
"I know the answer."
"You do?"
"*I do."