Wet

We clear one hurdle
and another looms,
perhaps because we insist
on running laps around
the same old track.
A thorn is removed from
our side, to be replaced
by a splinter in the ass.
One door opens, and two
slam shut. The waves keep
on coming, and our feet keep
getting wet. But we can’t help
loving this beach we call life,
and what else do we have to do?

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