There is a hunger I can't quench, An addiction I can't subside. An itch that burns under my skin And I've tried scratching it. I've tried.
I want that pretty silver tongue To match pretty porcelain hands Hovering over ink wells And candle stands But I can't have that. I can't salvage From the depths of my mind A poem to wrap around words like "Gossamer", "Murmurous", "Erstwhile".
Art is a circle But I am a line with crumbling architecture, My thoughts linear and grit; My prose stuffed with an hour-long process Of charm and wit.
I write these words to feed you; Please you; Fill you with the sense of understanding That I can't come to. My art is a lie with a rainbow And I stand smiling in an empty room, A vacant audience in a ghost of a show.
I write because I need you. I write because I want to dance for you. I write because I want to seem wise. But all that it amounts to Is a high that always dies And a candle that burns out Far too quickly.
This is not a cry. This is not goodbye. This is me. And I hope, for me, That this is enough to satisfy.
We are all troubled and we all have our faults. I'm eager to please you all.