So there's this girl
A small girl with tired eyes
She says she loves me
And I wish that I could believe her
That she was anything more than just
Water flowing through my hands
And when the bucket is empty
I'll still see her, and it won't be the same

So there's this woman
A stressed woman with worried eyes
She sees nothing more than the night before
She asks "Are you okay?"
And I tell her, "No, I'm not."
And we leave it at that.
And the next day
We do the same thing.

So there's this gun
A gifted gun with one beckoning eye
It is darker than anything I've ever stared at.
And when I look into it, I get scared.
Because I want to be whole again,
To feel the sun on my skin
To feel that hair in my face
To feel those lips on mine.
But the sun is killing me.
Because I can't be your sun.

So there's this note.
You don't have to read it
It doesn't have much merit.
I just thought about you
So I found my gift.
My wonderful god given gift.
To leave everyone I care about.
Because the sun gives you cancer.

You would say something about the push and pull of every day. And we would plop down with ideas. Think of this and think of that.
Throwing words like imagine and wouldn't it be amazing out into the open. You would even make plans, with patterns and colours for something to go on your wall, your own wall, whenever you'd have a wall. How many of those open docs do you have on your computer, with half-finished chapters and riveting denouements? I know it's hard to believe the people we once used to be. And sometimes fistfuls of carpet can feel like your only way to grip onto the world. Sometimes it feels easier to tear yourself limb from limb than look for your voice. It feels easier to sink into your bed, asleep or searching for sleep than to walk the miles ahead. Waking up every morning, de-shelling yourself, and stepping outside of who you are and used to be can make your bones ache deeply. There isn't much to say about the push and pull of everyday, except that there is a wall, your wall, and it's blank.

the sun is as hot as spaghetti
steaming with a sauce
served with a side of sizzling hot cherries.

my tie is so tight I cough in silent h's
and I'm sweating
my pores shooting out like a fountain
and my face, like an umbrella in the rain.

no time to think
no time to reason
"Ding, Ding DIING!"
I jump like I was slapped on the cheek
my beard itches, my right eye twitches
"What the F* is this?"
I write out the first words that come to me
"Ding, Ding, DIING!"
but I'm not done writing
I look at the bell,  "you f*king ****"
and I jump again, like there was a puddle before me
my head is as hot as popcorn
no, even hotter
and you can hear it pop
from the front and from the back
"Ding, Ding, DIING!"
i jump again
it's me vs. a bell.

I am waiting for slumber to keep
and surrender to the deep,
but only aches do conquer,
claiming victory over my saunter.

Tried so hard it surpassed my limits
I'm a drained over achiever and a dreaming believer
Really my work is a reward if you could tell by my eyebags
Education system won't let me take a breather
Determination is my pill and I won't stop until I'm burnt out.

We are worthy. We are capable. We are loved.

Especially when we're sick and tired or when we feel like laying in bed all day. Or when we actually do nothing the whole day. I want to remind us that this doesn't mean we're not productive, not capable or not worthy.

We're still as worthy as before, we're still as loved as before. It's just that our bodies and minds need to rest.
We actually need to rest regularly, but sometimes we forget that.

Now that I am sick I realized that and it's a relief to be there for myself although I feel so unproductive. I am loved. And you are, too. No matter what you're doing or not doing.