It all flows together,
Like pools of water,
The ones I step between in the parking lot.
Like paint dripping from a canvas -
Indistinct and coagulated,
A beautiful mess in the liminal spaces.
It pools in the tray of the easel,
Falling on the drop cloth, and on the floor.
My thoughts are scattered nothings,
Dropping from a paint stick absentmindedly.
I am indistinct,
Not what I ought to be.
I am a clover field without daisies,
A cup without a drink,
A ghost in a long hallway,
A body without a soul.
I am a paintbrush without paint.
I am nothing but the potential I can't fulfill.