I've painted with insomnia,
with love, heartache, and worry.
I've brushed strokes with infectious apathy,
or at least what I believed it to be.
But my eyes are out of color now,
scraped blank with shaking hands.
Wilted with dusty jaded cries,
empty paint cans stare, blinking, at the sky,
Wandering, waiting
for anything to ignite the stars again.