My fist was closed.
My breathing, hard.
The frown line was there,
sitting on my forehead,
as I failed miserably,
trying to hold onto something,
that was just like thin air.
My fist was closed, and I stared,
looking at it with fascination,
Holding onto nothing, but afraid,
of letting that nothing go.
You see, I failed to realize,
that once I freed my palm of
the misery I had placed upon it,
It would only be easier for me to
grab hold of other things.
But the concept of opening,
and grabbing onto something else,
just seemed so hard for me to imagine.
And the doubts, and fears came crawling in.
What if the next object I grab falls?
What if it breaks? Shatters? Explodes?
Oh the fear was too great,
so I just kept firm onto my hold,
holding, onto nothing.
You see, and I held so hard,
that I was convinced something must be there,
why else would my veins start to pop out?
The sweat dripping down my face,
I had my fist closed so hard,
I was afraid that it might just break.
I coulnt just open up,
couldn’t just let go,
I still had my other hand free,
but this one, this one,
I wanted-needed it to stay closed.
Needed the assurance,
that through all the objects I grab,
I will still have that hand,
grabbing hold, of what now was nothing,
But I knew, I knew,
that one day, long ago, It had,