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Labor for Luxury.

Ongoing cycles
spin, sting
like recurring dreams,
so desperate now to discharge
the emotional intensity

so that processing
and integrating
the experience
might be possible

so that I can move
on and grow beyond…

Paint, ink, mad
fingers typing my way
to fucking freedom.

I can work
with this, push
through it all,
take all this shit,

express it, creative
catharsis, process
and integrate it:

do my damnedest
to transmute
it into something valuable.

Whatever it takes
to be myself.
Honesty, truth, clarity:

a luxury
I am willing
to work for.

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