The Beach

The Beach
1980 x 1200
SketchBook
Inspired by the Beach in DEATH STRANDING

. . .

Once
I was a Child,
Until they told me that, 
I cried too much,
I was lazy, 
I was stupid, 
I was unfocused,
I talked too much, 
I was selfish,
And everything that I ever wanted,
Was pointless. 

I believed them. 

And it seemed so important that I did.

So I tried,

Crying less,

Working hard,

Being smart,

Being focused,

Talking less,

Being considerate

And wanting things, 

That made justifiable sense to want.

And everyone was happy, 

Though I wasn't, 

But it wasn't selfish, 

So that was good, 

So I continued,

Until I was,

An adult.

Then, 

Came the rain, 

And those, 

Whom I have so tried, 

To please, 

And serve, 

Scrambled for shelter, 

Leaving me,

Drenched. 

I sought for help, 

And all they could say, was:

'Fend for yourself;

You have but grown!'

I tried and I failed, 

And again I sought for help . 

But all they could say, was:

'Fend for yourself;

You have but grown!'

I tried, 

And again I failed, 

And so I sought for help, 

But all they could say, was:

You cry too much!

You are lazy!

You are stupid!

You are unfocused!

You talk too much!

You are selfish!

And You,

Are, 

Pointless!

They remained in their shelters, 

And I could do no more. 

With a heavy heart, 

I turned, 

And left as they cowered. 

I came upon a beach,

Where the rain was heaviest, 

And I saw a Child, 

Alone on the shore. 

The Child was crying,

So I sat myself down, 

Next to him, 

And asked, 

What was wrong. 

'They said, 

I cry too much, 

I am lazy, 

I am stupid, 

I am unfocused,

I talk too much, 

I am selfish,

I am pointless,

And I do not deserve, 

The shelter.'

He continued to cry, 

And all I could do, 

Was sit by him, 

On the black sands of the beach, 

Looking out, 

Over ferocious waves, 

Rolling under dark skies, 

As the world, 

Slowly floods. 

#20

A room

A table

Chairs

Windows

A priest

His lawyer

A soldier

His wife.

As they sit him down,

Still in chains,

They implore,

That he see reason.

The paper,

Is just a paper.

The same paper,

He had so vehemently,

Detested.

"Sign it or my practice will be ruined!" cries the lawyer;

"Nobody cares for such pointless protests!" cries the soldier;

"The Lord only looks within; the paper means nothing" cries the priest.

"Save us the trouble!" they cry.

But,

They do not see,

They do not understand,

The ache that stirred within his heart,

The truth that he allows himself to suffer for.

His heart is his truth;

The paper his lie.

Better to suffer the truth,

Than the lie.

He turns at last,

To his wife.

His wife.

O, how she has suffered;

Exiled, abused, tired.

What have I done?

Her hands;

They squeeze so gently.

He looks at her;

"Do you understand?"

In her own quiet way,

She nods.

"I love you;

In whatever you do."

And that is all he needs.

---

I have just come from watching Terrence Malick’s ‘A Hidden Life’, and let me just say, this film ripped me to complete shreds and the scene above was what destroyed me in the end. 

#19

The bitter taste

Left behind

Even after an apology

Lingers.

It lingers because I know

It was my fault

And it disgusts me to think

That I am

Unconsciously

Capable 

Of malice

Of manipulation

Of corruption. 

Even after an apology

I still feel it

The disgust

Because now

I think:

"I could be terrible

And not know it."

And it frightens me.

It frightens me. 

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Photo by Andrew Neel on Pexels.com