When clusters of anxieties roam inside me i try to read the blank last page of my life.

Some days I want to paint,
some times I want to be painted.

Some days I want to write,
some times I want to be written.

Some days I want to read,
some times I want to be read.

Some days I want to be a gardener,
some times I want to be the flower of that garden.

Some days I want to live,
some times I want to breathe in peace.

I'm still reading
the book she gave me
for Christmas.
Bukowski-
it's as good as you'd expect.
So why is it taking me
this long to finish?