OFTEN

So often do I take out my hammer, nails, and wood, and start to build up walls. Walls around anything, really. My thoughts, my feelings, my mind, my heart. All these things are boxed in, behind layers, and layers of fine pine. I would like to think that one day, someone would fight their way in. Slicing the boards into wood chips, or burning them down to ashes.

Too often do I take out my hammer, nails, and wood, only to build walls too thick, too steep, too hard to chop down.