I write until the callus on my finger blisters.
I type until my bones ache;
It may be carpel tunnel visiting often.
The joints of my hands become sore and
My wrists need rest.
My strained eyes don't care
When windowed daylight fades
But then I may forget to turn the lamp on.
I walk until my heels burn
But I'm not afraid to hike twelve miles.
The sky tells me that journeys are infinite
And what I accomplish in a day is quite small
But I'd do it all over again.
I would gladly create, be it a collage of words
Or sun-filled memories, even if it pains me
Because it means I am alive.