I cannot undertake this tidal wave of your teasing...
In and out again, I am washed up with just enough breath
To carry my soul through to the next round.
Grains of sand make their way to my throat
Burning like an acid sample
While the distant lighthouse sends out its searchlight
For my broken bones over the shores.
What am I? Some nail to please your Carpenter's tricks?
Beat me and beat me until I've given in to the hammer's head...
Still I think you should know that I tend to (t)rust
At the most inconvenient times.
I suggest that you spare your perfectly crafted tools
For I cannot live up to these labors of love
And maintain any remaining shards of nerve.