Driftwood
My hands gripped driftwood. I was sat on a rock during the end of winter when my knife carved into the stick.
The wooden face began to appear more and more as the sun began to set. My body was shivering while my hand kept picking.
As I worked I noticed the lack of form. I didn't like it.
I threw the stick with a huff, I heard the sounds of rocks being hit. My eyes watched the soles of my feet as I heard breathing ring in my ears.
I looked up to see the sun setting over the ocean.
My legs stopped twitching as amazement gushed over me. My hands no longer wanted to pick so much at that driftwood.
My Ride
I love my bicycle.
Not to race, but to ride.
My legs turn and churn
Mile after mile without a plan.
It clears my brain so thoughts can enter.
Thoughts of brilliance,
Thoughts of trifles,
Thoughts to be forgotten.
I approach a hill
To soar towards the sky.
Climb, climbing, climb, climbing.
I can't turn back now.
Ascending, rising.
No thoughts exist anymore.
Only pain.
But I will not surrender!
At the top comes the reward.
Rocketing down the slope.
Eyes watering from the wind,
Praying I stay upright.
I travel through the denouement,
Arrive at home again.
I survived!
Where do I ride tomorrow?
Wherever it takes me.