Tell me, blank stencil,
what would you say if you were the voice and not the mouth?
Would you, too, struggle to fill yourself with poignancy
as I so often have?
And in your earnest desperation to draw meaning from chaos and with chaos,
would you, too, crumble inwardly under the eternal, ethereal frustration
and destroy your medium and yourself to absolve your pain
the way so many failed expressions end?

No, I picture an innate fluidity,
where you rattle the truth and beauty of creation
as naturally as I breathe.
The poignancy of basic, instinctive survival-
Breathing to fill my empty lungs;
Expressing to fill an empty page