Messy, messy, all about, every time we turn around. News is broken, cope with joking, can’t stop choking, need a breath.
Soak it in, every drop, for it is real, and so are we, and we must eat it, so they say. What then, my friend? No end, no end.
But gently, gently, pull the plug. Turn your head and shut it out. Act alive, with choice and love. Say no thank you, do not need it, can not feed it. Makes me sick and breaks me down.
Sculpt a slipstream, shape what’s real, carve delusion into bliss, a slice of life where I am sheltered? Call it cheating, system beating. The sun will rise, the sun will set.
Nothing changes, nothing much, but bright, my heart might stutter less. My weary fists might get some rest. My mouth, my jaw, might take a break. My back might cease its weary ache.
When laughter lilts up, faces tilt up. We can stand up, shake it out, dust it off and set about.
Cue a new and steady beat. Find the measures, search for treasures, get the poison, leach it out. There’s work to do—for me, for you. Never ending work to do.