Up in smoke and down in ash. To create is agony.

When I start to draw or write or paint or design or say something I
want what I see in a seed. I want ideas to sprout and sprouts to blossom
and blossoms to spread seeds and continue a life that never stuttered.
I want each step to be even, good, joy-filled, pride-worthy.

I hope against the forest fire

I always need the forest fire

The sketches and sentences, ideas and work I want to protect,
I need to ignite it all.
Weeds and thorns so terrific, so perfect, so perfectly terrible.

In the burning, work dissolves.
Beside ashes of hope lay ashes of precious pride.
Douse with tears. My goodness. Where is the goodness?
Do I really have no goodness?
I really have no goodness.
I douse with more tears.

And this is the truly strange part
because tears are salt water—
but at that moment
good ideas begin to sprout