My palms are dusty and clammy
My calves ache and my feet throb
my throat clenches, my shoulders are tight, and my forehead is drawn into worry frowns

Music plays in the other room
Upbeat with good tempo
he hums along and off again
as he goes through creation antics
and produces money with finger strokes

There is no quite
There is no stillness
There is no calm
There is only frantic thoughts and worn out dreams
Dreams that threaten to fall
as my brain attacks them and hacks at them mercilessly

creativity is lacking
my heart it boils