When I begin to fret and fume,
my peace comes up, just rises up.
The woe is not mine, I'm fine.
Contain myself, I wish for money,
in abundance, and settle for a smile
on my face that I did not put there,
saying, just now, enough,
just enough, to know, too much
is superfluity, intentionally let spill.
Some days I only write to live