Running from my problems
as quickly as I could;
stopping to discover
they never left my side.

I’m poised above the page,
afraid to leave a mark,
for I won’t make an error
if I never even start.

Looking under the skin,
afraid to bruise a scar.
But that’s where it begins:
the truth of who you are.

You know it’s not your fault;
you needn’t bear the blame.
Open your battered vault –
stop shouldering the shame.

The craftsman lays his tools
upon the wood table
to weave a tale of fools
and forge fantastic fables.

I see this room coloured
in browns, yellows, and greens
from the ceiling to the floor;
some grey splashed in between.

There are three kinds of lights
setting the atmosphere
the lamps, the sun, the “brights”
adding some warmth in here.

Quiet kitchen sizzlin’s
cut through radio jazz
with machina rumblin’s
that add to the pizazz.

Last, there are my fellows
who’re scattered ‘round the room.
They come and then they go,
usually too soon.

“They say trouble’s contagious
and it travels in sets
but that is just outrageous.”
– the source of fools regrets

I’m laughing in Death’s face
and I’m poking his eye.
It adds spice to the chase
and helps to keep me spry.