Cloudy days make me
feel like I’d be better off
thinking and feeling with dispassion—
stripping all of those bright and buzzing inklings  
down to their logical black and white bones.
Colorless, I stare at what’s left of them—
dull pencil lines and some ***** eraser dust.
Nothing to build on, nothing to respond to.
There’s nothing left which stirs under my skin.
Now, just this empty notion someone put here.
I don’t like it or trust it.
I can’t make sense of it.
Only a familiar voice assuring me
“it’s better this way.”