i feel fine now
just, fine
and that's alright
life, designed to bring me down
i've designed
but im alright

Everybody is exhausted, one way or another.
Organizing brings more choas.
How do others work, I wonder.

No space in a day, escaping your body.
If it's still worth it you're considered lucky.
Hold on, hold me, time to get cozy.
Rushing so my feelings are behind me.

But I am on fire, shaking and staring.
Losing oversight.
No comfort at night.

So I write it all down cause it won't get done.
One by one.
One step at the time getting dizzy and confused.
How do you see through all the stuff you have used?

Cleaning and moving and changing.
It's a lot of re-arranging.
Is it living or just doing without feeling?

Head exploding, losing energy, any form of capacity.
To even begin to explain what's happening.
People never have nothing to do, always busy.
Overwhelming.

People are the energy like a star.
People are.
People shoot into the air.
And wish to stay there,

But moving is a part of living.
It's a part of everything.
Just keep on managing.

It's a lot.
Keep on smiling.
It's a lot.
Keep on managing.
Till you're not.

Some people move while standing still.
Managing until.
Smiling.
Managing.
Engaging.

Get started! With a small box
some leaves and some ants, and practice

lightning, flying storm and heavenly hand
until you can do it, then take a larger box
with more stuff and many more ants

Of course, they don't run together
sufficiently, so you shake the box
and occasionally you raise your higher hand

Then you can also do it with two boxes
and having mastered that, you throw them
together and you appoint petty bosses

If a box fails, set it on fire
open a new one
and give the boss another chance

yes, it's so easy
to be the upper boss

She sat down
I put the page in front
She merely stared
And painted a sea with teardrops on the shredded wood.

I passed along,
Pencil, charcoal, all that needs free
She sniffed, 'Better?' she said,
'I will feel better?'

Taking up her shivering white pencils
Of thin frail fingers, gripping graphite
Scratch, scratch, like a cat
Wanting to leave a locked room

The grey became black
The dust became mountains
And, she saw in here her life
As the clouds became rains

'But look', I put in
'Look what suns I make,
With a caring hand' I
Pushed a finger into the depths

A sunny print came out

Lisping, she rasped her breath back
And put a hand to the black dirt of the breaking
And made a hand-print;
Simple, like her delight

'You will learn to make
Suns of the shadows,
You will learn to make
Smiles of the silences

Your lines will be straighter
Your circles more graceful,
More curved to your *****
More jagged, if you wish.'

I smiled and she nodded
And watched her last tear fall,
Splashing down with tidal forces of sorrow on the page
An artist was born.