A rock in his hand, his feet covered in sand.
Brushed it off as he thought about where it would land
Wasn’t a pretty rock but looked fast
Thrown to skip- how long would it last?
How good was his luck? How hungry the ocean
Normally thrown with a particular notion
The pitcher- on his mound
Ball in his hand rollin around
Each rock has a name
And although it seemed insane to blame something inane
The process helped him stay sane
Why couldn’t people stay in their own lane?
The social species smelled like feces
He’d rather stay in the weeds than concede to their greed
Some people were cutters,
They also distrustful of others
To self inflict pain brought them refrain
He took that pain off his plain
And laid it like a stain into the grain of the stone
No longer his to own
For the water to clean them once they were thrown
For earth the great mother, designed us to need one another
The trick is to recognize every man is your brother
Awethentic 