You tire and you toil
and you boil
over a furnace of thought and desire,
of ambitions and of dreams.
You bleed into your work,
pouring more and more
of yourself into the product,
and tear yourself to bits at the seams.
Like an orange peeling you uncoil,
before your work in all its glory,
eager to show it off to the world.
And then you trip,
and your work
plummeting to the ground;
the vertigo is unbearable,
and you brace yourself for the world
to come crashing down around you.
Nauseated, you slowly open your eyes
to inspect the carnage
and ask yourself how the bile
hasn’t found its way out yet.
Cursing your stupidity,
your brain desperately
races within its hollow cloister,
desperate to rewind the clock and undo your blunder.
So what do you do next?
dust yourself off,
salvage as much as you can from the damage,
and get back to work.