Poem: The Wall

White painted old brick Wall

The Wall

It’s OK.
We all hit it.
It hurts. A lot.
And it’s OK to cry a bit
as you sit on the ground,
looking at it, how?
With a touch of fear?

It’s OK.
We all hit it.
Remember that.
We have felt the hard brick
against our hearts;
felt it press on us so long
we felt eternity.
Sit there a while,

or take a walk and come back,
armed with history.
Every wall can be breeched
by the persistent,
no stone or brick or lie
can last
against those who spend their time
at the foot of the wall,
plotting its demise.

About this poem

I kinda hit a creative block today.  I used to let that worry me.

Now? I just hit back.


PS: Pink Floyd ran through my head as I wrote this. Sometimes my life is one big soundtrack.

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