I seek inspiration in myself.
I know that this is wrong. But still,
I dig deep, and I look for that gleaming spark,
that white star,
that I see in all of you.
I cannot find it.
.
I seek inspiration in the skies.
like poets of old and ancient scholars
but I am blinded, distracted in fact,
by the universe that is in you.
I want to bleed it out and capture it in my hands,
hold you there forever.
I cannot grasp you here.
You would think that would stop you from trying.
.
You do not yet understand how cold my hand is.
How the ice has crept in through the sinew
and frozen my fingers.
I cannot hold your hand
I lash at you with my tongue instead
cutting and biting but occasionally sweet, laughing.
You wade through those moments, waiting
catching slowly onto what I will not say
and I hope that you notice my fingers twitching
I cannot hold your hand.
But I do everyday.
.
Something in me is breaking
the stones, large and looming, take my words
and twist
till all I hear is a broken echo of hurtmehurtmehurtme.
And I do
Hurtmehurtmehurtme
.
Still, It is you (the thought of you?) that lifts my hand to the page,
And slides the pen between my white-cold fingers
And whispers write it.
Write the pain away.
And I do.
Loveyouloveyouloveyou.