I am ordered to write crisply and creatively to express my ideas to my clients. 

Clean canvas smoothes my worries before I get the chance to trial and error. When my pen touches this clean canvas, it is ruined forever with my thoughtless and ridiculous expectations.

Oh! The anguish destroys me. 

All the complaints I get when my room and mind are filled with balled up and rejected mistakes. It's a landfill. Why so much waste they always ask me. 

This field is GREEN!

Your life cannot be separate from the sea of pollution. 

Pollution in my brain, commander sir. Do you understand?

But my mind is inhibited by everything, and I always need a empty canvas. 

One day, I followed a small insect with my pen because it beat manufacturing ideas. 

Manufacturing ideas.

So, as I'm balancing on this ball, sweat dripping off my face and onto my shiny shoes... I begin to wonder if this is how I am supposed to be. Juggling makes my arms weak and sometimes I just want to walk away, but I feel like it makes everyone happier... and sometimes myself. The paint on my face feels like plastic wrap and it's slowing suffocating me. The bleeds down into my eyes and makes me lose my balance.

I am walking mazes within this tent still searching for my soul. Finding pieces but not the whole.