The price for a dollar.

These days I’m living are harsh on my hands. Marks and cuts are tattooed on these hands of mean.

These hands I’ve trainned and worked throughout days of writing long hand and typing away dime store short stories and poetry are feeling the aches snd pains of general hard labor and the price for being born with the soul of an artist but the business mindset of ant or farmer.

I got one day to game on in my virtual haven of dreaming I’m thief on the run from a 19th century guard. I’m hands can’t bare more then a day.

Again, this is not to whin it is a weirdness to me. I would gladly work a field from dusk to setting sun with these hands. Feel the soil in my hands and breath in the scent of clean earth. Some part of me needs the scent and the labor and the other side of me would rather spend the day finishing my major book project and give up gaming entirely for it.

I’m all mixed up. My body is all fucked up from tiredness but….I can’t whin about because I’m a man and it just is interesting to me to think about as an artist mind and construction worker boots.

Warm Regards,



2 thoughts on “The price for a dollar.

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