I nurse immortal longings
at my girlish chest
Pacing, rocking, swaying
agitated pluck at an instrument
and am lost for sounds
paintbrushes crusted with acrylic
dim florescent basement hum
I pick up a pen
and it burns my palm
turn and turn to a looking glass
and scrutinize my limbs
these 23rd year limbs in the
autumn of youth have
barely begun to wrinkle
I ransack my renaissance boudoir
An artist, poet, musician, healer
one, some, any of these,
or none? I gather my trappings
and hold them to me like a toddler
hoping that perhaps they will impart
purpose, or authentic human feeling
palpable happiness, cutting sorrow
I used to feel so much more then-
where have my feelings gone?