Usually
When I’m feeling down, I
bust out a box of colored pencils and
bust a vein on the paper.
But now
I dig through the box,
and I just can’t find those bright colors.
I assure myself that they’re there.
I know that they’re there.
I want
I need
I beg
for them to be there.
But the deeper I dig
The more I find
blackness, darkness, jet black ebony
murky, swarthy swaths of shadowy slate
perilous, pitiless pitch
somber, sober sable
I keep digging.