One day these waves that toy with me,

their foam crested tops that hit me in the face

but refuse, for now, to drown me,

refuse to take me to a place where the quiet

seekers dwell, those that have finally

silenced the nagging sheer doubt live,

those crested waves will drag me down

with white pulsed fingers

and when it does,

don’t be surprised if you open the door

to me and I ask for help

and forgiveness

in a world that spits on such actions.