Caffeine.
Shaky fingers attached
to quivering hands, steady themselves
on brick walls, paper, canvas, and skin.
Nicotine.
Reliable digits now detached
from a similar grasp. Without the stirring
lives of the artist, there is no life within.
Traces of muscle memory assist me again.
Feigned skill determined by the past,
and a pen.
Tranquiline.
Reality-defying, I'm aware to where my mind lies.
Without trying, you'll perceive it, and be on your way.
Underlying, a rare mind may use
hues to cry.
But the realist intellect knows
secrets deeper,
the mind of a dreamer,
and where to draw the line.